the devil had done for the rest
by afastmachine
Summary: Emma expects to find Killian Jones. Instead, she's met with Captain Hook, standing on the edge of a very deep abyss. Rated M for a very good reason; contains dark!Hook, rough sex, and dub-con. There is a happy(er) ending in the cards.
1. Chapter 1

Set after the end of S2. **(Very) rough sex, (very) Dark!Hook, and what we'll call dub-con to be safe.** Not a happy fluffy fic. You've been warned.

This is the first part of what I expect to be a two-part story. The second part is mostly written and will deal with the afternoon after, as it were.

* * *

Emma is asleep in his cabin when something wakes her. Blearily, she looks around, trying to find out what had pulled her out of her sleep. Nothing jumps out at her, and the deck above remains quiet. She glances at the window, noticing that it's probably an hour after sunrise and she needs to be getting up anyways, she slides out of bed and stretches.

She's been spending more and more time there, much to her father's eternal chagrin. But he was more than capable of sucking it up, and really, Emma needed Hook. As the days spent in Neverland had begun to pile up, sleep had become harder and harder to find. She wasn't sure exactly how it had started; one minute they had been fighting(she accused him of not trying, he accused her of being sleep deprived, around and around, the usual), and the next he had been fucking her into his mattress, her arms hooked around his neck as his name spilled from her lips, over and over.

That had been a week ago, and by now, Emma had practically moved into Hook's cabin. It wasn't intentional, but now that she was spending every night in his bed, she didn't want to wake in the mornings. She was sleeping, actually sleeping, nine hours of blissful unawareness that made putting up with his eternally smug face and her parent's constant looks of caution almost worth it.

Getting laid on a nightly basis did wonders for your patience, Emma had noted. Henry was still first on her mind, but she was dealing with the fact that it wasn't going to be easy. The Jolly Roger was fast, but the sea was massive and the island elusive. Gold and Regina spent hours every day working at Hook's maps, trying to figure out where they were and where they needed to be. Hook's only comment was that things had changed in the years he had been gone.

She's alone in the spacious room; Hook had been up with the sun, as he always was. It didn't bother her; their arrangement had always been strictly no strings attached. No cuddling, no pillow talk, no early-morning-soul-scouring revelations. Mutually beneficial. She got the sleep she desperately needed to function, and he had a warm body to share his nights with.

Which wasn't to say that she just laid there. Oh no. Because he _was_ just as good as you would imagine. She wasn't sure how long he'd been alive, or where all he'd put in to port, but he could do things, things no man she'd ever met could do. And he did them well.

But that didn't mean there was a relationship, an _attachment_ forming, like she knew her mother suspected. She was perfectly capable of walking away from Captain Sex and his leather-clad ass. But as long as the sex was good and he didn't try to make it into something it wasn't, there wasn't any reason to walk away. She was perfectly content to carry on the way they were until they found Henry and got back home.

Satisfied with the way her neck popped when she rolled her head, she began meandering through the room, reaching for her underwear and pants, reveling in the ache between her legs. _She_ may be used to the idea of mind-blowing sex every night, but her body wasn't quite onboard, not yet accustomed to having gone from zero to sixty so fast. And sixty it was. Had she mentioned how good the sex was? Hook was nothing if not a gentleman in bed, she had been forced to admit. If he hadn't been, their arrangement probably wouldn't have gotten very far.

She had just buttoned her pants and was starting the search for her bra when she heard the commotion on deck. Charming was yelling and she could hear the dull clunk of Gold's cane as he moved about outside. Quickly, she scours the cabin before coming up empty, not a bra in sight. In fact, she can't find the shirt she'd been wearing earlier either. Ugh. They would need to have a talk about that tonight. She did not appreciate her clothes going missing.

For now, she reached for the nearest thing she could find; the shirt Hook had thrown off last night. It still smelt like the sea and rum and that indefinable smell of _him_. Dimly, she registered the urge to flip the collar and take a deep breath, but she ignored it. That would be silly and highly irrational considering the commotion outside that she now recognized as a screaming match, probably between the whole lot of them. Emma gritted her teeth. Right now, the last thing they needed was discord among the ranks. Throwing the shirt over her head, she frowned at how low the buttons went, exposing a fair amount of skin between her breasts. Briefly she contemplated searching for her own shirt again, but a heavy thud from outside pushed her out of the cabin and into the sunlight.

Only to run head-on into Hook himself. She caught a glimpse of her father and mother caught in a heated debate with Gold and Regina on deck above them, and her heart sped up when beyond them, she saw what they'd been searching for for so long. Land. Completely ignoring Hook, she made to brush past him, but his hand clamped down on her forearm and he pulled her back into the room with him, slamming the door shut.

"What the fuck, Jones!?" Emma rounded on him, jerking her arm in a futile attempt to break his vice-like grip. His eyes were dark, menacing, and a small part of Emma recoiled. She hadn't seen him like this before. Not ever. The way he'd looked at her in Rumplestiltskin's cell was just a shadow of the darkness clashing before her. She'd especially never seen him like this since they'd been sleeping together.

"What's the matter, Emma," he growled darkly, crowding up against her, forcing her back against the door and still coming, pressing their bodies together and bringing his face close her hers, mere inches away from her lips. His eyes flicked down the length of her, slowing when he reached her chest and the rather flimsy material of his shirt. His tongue flicked against his lips and she felt the puff of breath against her own lips. "I thought you liked my company," he whispered, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

"Seriously, what the _fuck_ is going on?" She tried to shove against him, but he quickly spun her around, pressing her front against the door, her arms trapped against his left arm, his body adding enough pressure that she could feel the ridges of the door underneath her arms, the curved edge of his hook digging into her ribs.

His breath was hot against her neck and she shuddered, not liking anything about this situation. His hand came up and he twirled a strand of hair between his fingers, sliding it away from her shoulder, caressing the side of her neck gently before laying down a line of hot kisses up her shoulder and neck, finishing against her jaw, sucking hard enough to bruise. He chuckled when she went rigid against him, the sound vibrating against her neck and back, through her chest. It wasn't light, like how he had been lately. It was dark, terrifying, like the skittering in the dark that warned of things hiding in the shadows.

"Jones, what-" she got out before he growled against her skin, _biting_ at the place where he'd just had his mouth, and she bucked against him, furious, but it had no effect on him, except that he let out a hum against her skin before pressing her back against the door. And then his hand was there, against her stomach, working circles under her shirt, dipping beneath the edge of he jeans. Oh _fuck no_, he was _not_ going there. But he had already popped the button and yanked the zipper down, his palm grinding against her panties, sending sudden sparks shooting down her legs.

"_Jesus_," she moaned, her previous anger forgotten, and she felt his smirk against her shoulder. All too quickly, his hand was gone, shoving her jeans and underwear down, ripping them off her legs before she had a chance to protest. And then he was against her again, and she could feel the bulge in his pants, grinding against her ass.

Fuck, this was happening. Actually fucking happening.

A part of her was telling her to just go with it, it was a turn on, he was there, very obviously intent on having her right there, against the door, her _parents_ not twenty feet away on the other side. Nothing she would have ever considered, but she wasn't exactly diametrically opposed to it. Another part, the pissed off stubborn part, was in control, though, bucking back against him.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he took the moment to pull them away from the door, his arm firmly holding her own against her body. He yanked on the hem of his shirt, ripping it open down the front, pulling a hefty piece off and stuffing it into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, push it out with her tongue, but it her mouth was dry and it was too much, crammed against her jaw, locking it in place.

She yelled and kicked at the air, throwing all her weight against him, but to no avail; he stood his ground, and all that came out was a muffled sound. He grinned, sharp as a knife's blade.

"I notice how you waited to scream until you _knew_ no one could hear you." She could _feel_ the edge in his voice, cutting against her skin. She shuddered, not caring that it gave him exactly what he wanted. His hand drifted between her legs again, roughly rubbing at her clit, enough to make her arch against him, bowing forward, but not enough to actually make her come. He pulled his hand away, and she couldn't control the whimper that escaped her at the loss. He manhandled her around, his hand coming up under the ripped shirt she was wearing to roughly squeeze her breast before pulling at the nipple. She thrashed in his arms; it was too much, not right, just the wrong side of painful.

"Emma," his voice growled in her ear, a warning. Pay attention. He turned the back towards the room, still holding her against him, slowly thrusting against her ass. "I'm going to lay you across that desk, Emma, and I'm going to take you. Hard." Her eyes widened at the growled words, and he continued offhand. "You're probably not going to enjoy it very much." He nipped again at the spot against her jaw. It was already sore, too sore, and she shied away, turning her head the other direction, away from him.

But he brought his hand up, turning her chin back towards him. His breath was hot, heavy against her hear. "Careful, love," he murmured, the ever-present undercurrent of steel a warning vibration, nipping at her ear before pressing a kiss against the bruise below her ear.

Like strings had been cut, all the fight went out of her. She stomped on the stubborn, angry side of her until it yielded, backed down. He was doing this. Probably enjoying her squirming against him, fighting his touch. In reality, she wasn't so sure she wanted to be fighting him. She'd never seen him like this, a pirate through and through, Captain _Hook_, a man who'd assuredly killed and fucked and pillaged his way into history books somewhere. She was morbidly curious to see what happened next. What had made Killian Jones spiral back into Captain Hook. What would make him burn his bridges so recklessly, so violently? And this bridge in particular. The little turned on part of her was growing, lighting a fire in her that she really wished she could ignore.

She's out of her thoughts when her hips bump into the edge of his desk roughly. He presses against her, his face buried in the side of her neck, inhaling against her skin. Without preamble, he presses her harder against the desk, his knee going between her legs to knock them apart. Emma totters, unsteady from the loss of support. His hand disappears from her skin and his hook tightens against her side, the sharp edge pressing against the skin between her ribs and hips.

And then, with no warning, he's there, his cock hot against her ass, between her legs where he's rutting against her; she can feel the laces of his pants loose against her, but she's more concerned with the fact that he's lining himself up, fingers dipping into her folds and she's not fucking ready. She scrambles to let him know, moaning against the gag, pulling away from him, but he just jerks her back and presses in, agonizingly slow. It burns, the stretch, and she whines into the makeshift gag. He ignores her, pressing further and further in, and she feels the fire low in her belly start to sputter at the discomfort. He's thick; bigger than average, which she had always appreciated before, but now, now it's just the wrong side of painful.

He's seated all the way in her when he starts talking, whispering filth in her ear about how tight she is, how she looks, supported just by his cock inside her and his arms around her, and she wants out, of his arms, out of his cabin, off of his goddamn ship, _right fucking now_.

But then the pressure is gone, her arms no longer pinned against her, his cock no longer making her feel like she's splitting in two, and for a second, she forgets his words, starts to bring her legs together, to reach for the gag in her mouth, ready to lay into him, and then he's back.

He thrusts in fast this time, buries himself inside her with a grunt, pushing her down against the desk with his body. His hook deftly collects her wrists and traps them above her head, the point digging into the wood, sticking, offering him leverage. He lifts himself off her, slides out again, and kicks her legs even wider. If it wasn't for the hand in the middle of her shoulder blades and the hook holding her hands down, she would be sliding off the desk. She hates the feeling of being so exposed, so helpless. At the same time, though, she can feel the fire in her turning over, starting to burn again, licking at her insides.

He's set a pace; slow, far too slow for satisfaction. She wants to tell him to hurry up, to get on with it, but he's taking his time now, fucking long and deep into her. It sparks in her belly, and she knows it's not intentional; remembers his words from earlier. He's not trying to get her off. He's doing this for his own ends. His own satisfaction. Whatever that may be. It should scare her, but added to everything that's happened already, all it does is throw tinder on the flames.

She's thrown out of her own thoughts again by his tongue on her back, licking a long stripe up her spine. He leans back across her, his hips never skipping a beat, and whispers in her ear, "You taste like the sea, Emma."

_Jesus Christ_, that's fucking unfair, the way it shoots liquid heat straight between her legs. He chuckles against her. His hand slides between her chest and the table, rubbing a nipple between his fingers, gentler this time, enough to make her hips twitch, internal muscles fluttering around him. She can feel his smile against her skin, he leans further, and nips at her bruise. She stiffens, clamps down on him, and he seems satisfied enough.

He leans back and shifts the angle, starts pumping into her in earnest. Her hips are rocking against the table, and the shredded remains of his shirt are doing little to prevent her already sensitized nipples from rubbing against the wood with every thrust. She's sparking, the new angle setting off nerve endings and making her toes curl against the floor beneath them. His hand is gripping her hip, tight enough to bruise and she knows that it's intentional, can feel it in the splay of his fingertips.

She's getting close, surprising herself. He must notice her hips stuttering back to meet his, the way moans are starting to slip through the gag, because he chuckles. "I guess you _are_ enjoying this, darling," he says, far too fucking brightly, and for a second, she can pretend that this is just another night, just another helpful orgasm. But she doesn't want to pretend. She doesn't know what she wants, what she's thinking; just that she needs to come. Apparently he does too, because his hips speed up and suddenly she is right there, speeding towards the edge with no safety net, screaming a litany of curses against his shirt in her mouth.

She comes, hard, her body going limp against the desk, against him. He groans, his hand coming out to brace himself against the desk as he picks up speed, fucking her hard and fast and uncaring. Adrenaline is the only reason he hasn't come yet, she's sure of it, but at this point, she doesn't really care. Everything's a little hazy, numb. It barely registers when his hips stutter and he comes, sprawling across her.

Time is indeterminate, and though she just woke up less than an hour ago(really, has it only been that long?), she's fading, exhausted and worn to the bone, muscles sore and aching already. She can't move, not with him still pinning her down, but she's not really crazy about moving right now anyways. Moving means thinking which means dealing with what just happened.

Finally, he stirs and lifts himself off of her. He pulls at his hook and it comes dislodged from the wood of the desk with a dull thunk. His arm is around her waist and before she's aware of anything, she's laying in his bed and he's pulling her against him, his knee sliding between her legs, forcing them open against him. His arm snakes out and wraps around her hips, pulling her back against him tightly, still apparently a possessive asshole. The gag is gone, taken out at some point she didn't notice, and she rolls her tongue around in her mouth, against her teeth. He tucks his head against the side of her neck, and she almost wants to say something around her dry throat, but she's slipping, too exhausted to try and figure him out. She doesn't _want_ to.

So she closes her eyes and pushes the problem away.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so this was supposed to just be two parts, but there's now a third swirling around in my head that probably will be written at some point. Either way, it will be merely an add-on.

A smutty add-on.

Until then, here. Have some drama and angst.

* * *

She opens her eyes to see him, staring at her from across the room. He's sitting in a chair, body sprawled out like he always is, a relaxed façade always facing outwards, but he's watching her closely, all the rage and anger and possessive lust let out of his eyes, leaving behind something she's never seen before.

Fear. Concern.

For her.

He doesn't say anything, just watches her. She doesn't know if she should cry, pound her fists against him, get up, walk out, try and talk to him, roll over and try to not think about it, what happens now. He'd crossed a line. Lots of fucking lines. Pretty much every single one of them. Every single deep instinct she'd developed over the years is screaming at her to run, to throw herself overboard before spending another second with him. Every single instinct _as a woman_ is telling her to get out of his bed and never look back. She fucking _knew_ better than to think she owed him a goddamn thing.

But he was looking at her. Scared and freaked out and she knew that a hell of a lot was riding on what happened next.

"Emma," he says her name softly, like she's some kind of wounded animal. (She is.)

_"Emma," his voice is a warning growl against her ears, too much and not enough. His hand is heavy on her hip, gripping her skin far too tightly as he turns her towards the desk._

She slams her eyes shut at the reminder, the rush of emotion and sensation. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, brace up her walls. When she opens her eyes again, he seems to have realized his mistake, because his eyes have widened incrementally and his mouth is set in a tight line.

Sighing, she scrubs a hand over her face. She doesn't know what to do. So she sets to doing something she _does_ know how to do. When she sits up she registers that she's still wearing his shredded shirt, it somehow having remained on her shoulders even through it all.

_The fabric tears easily under his fingers, baring skin as it slides open. Panic shoots through Emma's mind as he yanks again, a chunk from around the side coming off in his fingers. The ripping sounds far too loud and she squeezes her eyes closed._

Fuck. She's got to stop thinking about it. Anything to distract her. He's still watching her and the silence is heavy; she knows he wants to say something but he's scared of hurting her, of saying the wrong thing.

Good. She doesn't want to listen to him right now, _can't_ listen to that damned accent because all she can hear now is gravel and knives.

Easing her legs over the edge of the bed, she winces, cataloging the aches that go from her calves to her shoulders. She slides out of the bed and almost lets out a groan. If it was a dull ache this morning when she got up, it's risen to a tangible throbbing pain between her legs, making walking less than comfortable. Hook's eyes are on her, and she doesn't miss how they narrow at her stilted walk. Doing her best to ignore him, she opens his wardrobe and goes for her bag at the bottom, pulling out the spares she kept here just in case.

She doesn't look at the jeans and underwear from earlier, tossed in the corner next to the door.

Pulling her shirt over her head is hard, harder than she'd anticipated, but she stubbornly perseveres through it. When she pulls it down over her head she feels the bruise against her jaw and panic shoots through her. Oh god. What is she going to tell her parents?

She casts a glance over her shoulder at Hook; his gaze is fixed on the wall across from him, above his bed. His hook is resting at his side but she knows resting is never the right word to use with him. His knuckles are white against the dark wood, fingers gripping the chair tight enough to snap bones. She knows because that hand was just on her. She squeezes her eyes shut tight and tries not to think about those same fingers pressing indelible marks into her own skin.

This is going to be a lot harder than she hoped.

Making up her mind, she shimmies into her jeans, distracting herself with the zipper and button, firmly not thinking about the action, letting muscle memory take over. She's not going to have it out with him. Not here. Not now. _Not ever_ a small voice whispers to her. Emma has always been good at ignoring the problem.

His eyes follow her when she crosses his field of vision, and he opens his mouth to say something. She narrows her eyes at him and he snaps it shut again.

She walks out his door without a second glance.

* * *

The deck is bright in the afternoon sun when she stumbles up on it. Gold and Regina are nowhere to be found, but she spots her parents at the bow of the ship in hushed conversation. Beyond them, she can see the island. Neverland. Her heart picks up speed.

Mary-Margaret must catch sight of her, because in no time at all she's stepped out of David's embrace and is hurrying across the deck. Emma tenses, bracing herself for the barrage of judgment and questions that she knows are coming. But nothing comes. Instead, Mary-Margaret walks right into her arms and squeezes her tight.

Whatever happened to Hook (fuck, she's not supposed to be thinking about him) must have affected the rest of them too.

"What happened?" Emma asks, and her mother pulls away from her, eyes falling to the forming bruise on the side of her neck.

"He didn't tell you?" Her voice is suspicious and Emma scrambles to try and cover. What she comes up with is beyond lame.

"Uh, no." Mary-Margaret narrows her eyes and Emma shakes her head, hoping for once that she takes the hint and backs off. A first time for everything.

And surprisingly enough, she does. Instead, she answers Emma's question.

"It was Gold," she says, and Emma is already dreading where this is headed. "He and Regina went ashore, right after we first laid anchor." Mary-Margaret takes a deep breath. "Someone came out of the trees, we don't know who it was, but…" She trails off and Emma has a sinking suspicion she knows where this is going.

"Where's the body?" she asks, but her mother shakes her head.

"He didn't kill him." Emma quirks an eyebrow, urging her to continue. But she seems frozen, like she can't push the words past her lips.

That's when David decides to lend a voice to the conversation.

"He took his heart."

* * *

The instant Emma's head hits the pillow, she knows she's not going to be getting any sleep tonight. Too much has happened, and her routine is already thrown. If this were any other day, she'd already be in Hook's cabin. Maybe already in his bed. But now the thought of it makes her shudder.

She's still trying to register what her parents told her. Gold had taken someone's heart, brought it back to the ship, and then claimed that he had done it to have a spy, a person on the inside. It made sense, but Emma wasn't a fool. She knew Gold was just trying to drive his own point home.

After her visit with Hook in the hospital that seemed like ages ago, she had tried to put it together, and had come up with only one solution, one that explained his tattoo, his aversion to letting hearts be lost, his explanation that he had hurt Gold's heart, of all things.

She knows now, as sure as she can without either of them telling her, that Gold had taken Milah's heart. Just like Regina had taken Graham's. Her own heart stutters at the memory, the way he felt in her arms, falling against her, his eyes fading and everything crashing down around her.

Stealing a heart, bringing it onboard the Jolly Rodger, holding it hostage, manipulating someone, the ever-present threat of a crushed heart hanging over their head…she understands a little better. It doesn't ease the pain or the anger, just multiplies it enough for the two of them.

She thinks of how her parents told her it was getting too late to head ashore, that horrible things lurked in the dark (her mind flashed to Hook), how they would have to wait to collect supplies until the sun rose the next day. More anger rises at that. It's been so long already; one more day seems so impossible.

The feeling in the pit of her stomach makes her sick; she is sure that they will try and pair her with Hook, and there's no way to get out of it without bringing the whole thing down around all of them.

So she sits, stewing in her own dread and anger and pain.

It's gonna be a long fucking night.

* * *

They have two skins full of fresh water from streams they'd come across, and another small bag full of some kind of berries that Hook had assured her were safe to eat. She hadn't tried them yet, too much simmering inside her to trust him, even on something like this, though she knows there's no rational reason he would try to fool her.

Things are going great. Swimmingly, in fact, considering their circumstances. Right up until he grabs her arm, pulling her away from the shoreline that she's drifted far too close to.

But that's not what she feels.

_His fingers dig into her arm, jerking painfully as he slams her against the door. It rattles beneath the combined force of both their weights and- she's spinning against him, his hand and body pressing her against the wood uncomfortably, too close, too much, she can't breathe-_

She rips her arm out of his, teetering in the sand, two steps away from where the water is nipping at the wet sand of the beach.

"Emma," he warns.

_His voice is purring, growling, she can't tell, it's too much, her skin tingles where he touched her, said she tasted like his first love, sunshine and salt and wooden decks; she wants to cry, to come, anything but this, her breathing is too tight, it feels like she's in a pressure cooker and it's all she can do to hang on and-_

Somehow she manages to stumble farther up the beach, giving him a wide berth. The memories are still surging under the surface, threatening to overwhelm her and crash down, more dangerous than the surf she just avoided.

"Emma," he's approaching her, coming up the beach towards her, getting closer and closer and she can't help herself, he's a threat and she reacts instinctively. "We need to talk," he says, and whatever else he may have planned on adding is silenced when her fist connects with the side of his face.

He reels back, clearly not expecting that, and Emma stands her ground, feeling the panic slowly transforming itself into anger. White-hot, raging anger. At him, at herself, at the whole fucking thing.

"Why!?" she yells at him, and he looks up, brushing the cold steel of his hook against his cheek. Fuck. That does things to her that she can't be feeling now, only pouring more gas on the flames that are ravaging her. Its anger, this time, but it's such a fine line with him and she hates it so much. She tries not to think of what else is the opposite of hatred.

He doesn't say anything for a long while, but when he does, he's angry, defensive. She's blind with her own anger, but she can see enough to know this isn't going to be easy. She doesn't dare show him her back.

"I'm a _pirate_, Emma! You _knew_ that when you crawled into my bed." His voice is dropping octaves and Emma's fight or flight response flutters in her chest, beating _flightflightflightflight_ against her ribcage. She grits her teeth and rounds on him, channeling the adrenaline into more anger, stoking the flames.

"That doesn't give you the right to act like a fucking barbarian!" She stalks over to him, the anger drowning out all common sense that might suggest it's a bad idea to engage him again. "I. Am. Not. Yours." She punctuates the words with a hard shove. His eyes narrow and she's suddenly very aware of her proximity to him, the fact that her hand is still on his chest.

Quickly, she yanks it away and turns, carefully putting some distance between them. Her heart is racing and she hates that she can't pinpoint why, the anger mixing with other things she refuses to identify, to give name to. That she still feels like this around him, even after everything. She hates it, hates him.

"I don't know what you want from me, love-"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ call me that," she turns on him, cutting him off. It's only through sheer willpower and the adrenaline racing through her that she manages to stomp out the memories threatening her. She takes a deep breath, and glares at him. For once, he has the decency to look chastised.

She takes another deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She never wanted to have this conversation in the first place, but she's running on fumes; she hadn't gotten a wink of sleep last night, and holding herself together around everyone while staying on edge around him all day today has been one of the hardest things she's had to do in a long time.

It feels like her jaw's gonna snap if she doesn't stop clenching it. She doesn't want to talk about it, she doesn't know what to say, doesn't even know what she really thinks or feels. But at the same time, she can't keep carrying on like this. She'll burn herself to ashes before they get anywhere near Henry at this rate.

Her life has been full of hard choices, and she's just going to have to chalk this one up there with the rest of them.

Sighing, she lets herself fall to the sand, patting a spot next to her. "Sit," she says, and looks pointedly at Hook.

He doesn't say anything, probably too worried about what she might do if he does, and she lets the silence stretch until it feels like it's going to snap. Her anger is burning down, a flash fire that's just embers now.

"What I want, Hook, is to stop _feeling_ like _this_." It doesn't escape her notice that he looks down when she uses his moniker instead of his name. "I want us to have never happened." He turns to her at that, but she's not finished. "I don't want to look at you and think about the fact that you fucked me like…" She trails off when she realizes she doesn't know how to phrase it. She doesn't know how to explain just how badly he's screwed her up. That all she can feel is the bruised skin on her neck, the fingerprints blossoming on her hip, the throbbing ache between her legs, even a day later.

She never does finish her sentence, but she thinks he gets it. He doesn't say anything.

Everything had been so perfect, as perfect as it could have been. And then Neverland had come and fucked them all over. She knows now that what they had been doing, what she'd denied, had only led to this. The only reason she's sitting here talking to him about this instead of running back to the ship is because some small part of her feels something. For him. Even now.

And she's pretty sure he feels something too, or he wouldn't be sitting next to her in the sand, trying to listen even though she just punched him in the face and he's probably gonna have a shiner in the morning and she's going to have bruised knuckles. He's always been able to see through her, but ever since they plunged through that portal, she's been picking up more and more on him, flipping through the pages of the book labeled Killian Jones.

"I don't know what you want," he says, breaking the silence. "Do you want an apology? Because _gods_, Emma, _I'm sorry_." She looks at him. His eyes are bright in the sunlight, and she can see straight to his soul. He's telling the truth, of course. He can't lie to her.

"I know," she says softly, all the fight gone out of her. She doesn't want to keep pushing against a wall. "But that doesn't change anything."

"I don't know what to do." It's strangely comforting to know that he's as lost as she is. "I don't want to hurt you, Emma. I don't want us to _be like this_."

_You should have thought of that before you fucked me_, she thinks, the retort rising in her throat before she pushes it back down. There's nothing that can be done about the past.

"I know," she says again. There really isn't anything else she can say.

The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but the tension has gone out of it. This is what their relationship is now. A gaping abyss between them that swallows everything near it.

"I should have stopped." She looks at him, but he's not looking at her, his gaze turned back down the beach towards his ship. _No shit, Sherlock_ she stops herself from saying. She doesn't owe him anything, but she still feels like she should listen.

"Yeah," she breathes. "You probably should have." He turns back to her. The fact that if she had tried to stop him herself, he probably wouldn't have hangs in the air. The abyss sucks it down.

"I made a promise to you, Emma, and I broke it. And about a dozen others that I made to myself," he says, like he's trying to lay his soul out for her. Her mind flashes back to their first night together, after the fighting and the fucking and the anger; her whispered proposal, the way his arm had tightened around her waist when he swore to her that he'd never hurt her, that he would find her son, _her_ grandson. He hadn't been lying. It was the closest they'd come to emotional bonding in the entire time they'd been on the ship.

And then, well...yesterday had happened.

For the first time, she thinks maybe her thoughts are starting to settle, to reorient themselves. For the first time, she knows what she's thinking.

He did something wrong.

But she had so many chances, so many little moments to slip away. She's not sure if they were intentional, but she knows she could have at least put distance between them, even if that might not have stopped him. Who knows? She'll never know.

She didn't take a single one of them. She didn't know what she was getting into, maybe, yes, but that flicker inside her had grown fast, consuming every rational thought in its path. She'd wanted to know what the abyss looked like, and it had stared back at her, snapping its teeth, and she hadn't backed down.

She still doesn't know what to say.

And so they sit there until the tide lifts the water closer and closer and they realize that everyone is probably wondering what happened to them. He rises first, hesitates for a moment, and then offers her his hand.

She pauses, watching him carefully. The moment stretches but he doesn't take it back. He's waiting for her. Waiting for her to be okay.

She's never going to be _okay_. She's in Neverland with Captain Hook searching for her son who had been kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend's fiancée and her secret partner.

But them? They might be getting there.

She reaches up and takes his hand, letting him tug her up. He's careful to keep her from overcorrecting and falling against him, and as soon as she's steady on her feet, he lets her go.

They've already started down the beach when she realizes that nothing had happened; no flashes, no horrible memories. Just his fingers wrapped around her hand, gently helping her up.

Helping her be okay.

Maybe that's all they can ask for right now.


	3. Chapter 3

I wrote out the outline for this part and it ended up being almost as many words as the part before it, so I ended up splitting it up. I have given up trying to figure out many parts this sucker is going to have. Probably only a couple more but I keep saying that so. I tried to make them stop yelling at each other but apparently neither of them listened too well. Sorry. Also, this is not the smutty chapter you are looking for. Sorry. Again. My only excuse is that it's been a very, very long time since I wrote anything more than a one-off.

* * *

Emma can't describe what it feels like to have Henry back in her arms. It's been a long-ass road and she's so tired of losing him. She's not usually a cuddler, but since the moment in that clearing when he'd caught sight of her, he hasn't wanted to let any of them out of his sight, and she feels the same. And so he's tucked into her arms like he would have been as a baby. If she had had been able to hold him while he was a baby. The thought sends a pang of sadness through her, and she tightens her hold on him. He doesn't stir.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to make as little noise as possible. He's been staggering and droopy-eyed from the second Hook had walked back into the clearing with him. She's just so glad to have him back. She'll have to pass him off to Regina tomorrow night, but for now he's hers and all she wants to do is be with him. She wants to hold his hand and tuck him into bed and never let him away from her again.

They had been so close to losing him, every rock turning up nothing. Even Gold's hostage heart had been more hindrance than help. Even Regina had started to see that in the end. The Lost Boys were smart enough and somehow had realized that there was one among them missing something, and then all hell had rained down on them when Gold had called back the spy.

Emma was trying very hard to not think of what she herself had done. Magic like that was terrifying. If she could replace a heart, could she take one as well?

She's glad Hook hadn't been around for that.

They had been coming, so many, too many for the five of them, even with Regina and Gold's magic. The heart pulsing in Gold's hand had seemed like the center of their attention, and Emma had acted on instinct. The poor bastard he'd taken it from was just sitting there calmly like there wasn't magic sparking inches from his head.

She'd snatched it out of his hand and just _pushed_ and it was done and the kid was looking at her like she was someone wonderful. Like she was his savior.

And then it had all gone to hell. The kid was gone, running away (she hadn't blamed him), and their attackers had just melted away into the forest and every single lead they'd had had crashed down around them. Gold had started yelling that she had thrown away their only possible lead on Henry, her father's voice rising in her defense, her mother promising that they would find a way, Regina still standing there, shock on her face.

The worst part was the fact that Gold had been right. She'd thrown away their only hope of finding Henry in this hellhole of an island because she'd felt _sorry_ for someone who was probably another cold long-lost boy who would have his friends repay her with a blade as soon as a thank you.

It was sinking in, all the noise and the fighting and the anger finally getting to her. She was two seconds away from snapping, and she didn't know if that meant sobbing on the ground or first degree murder.

Then Hook had appeared, his hand clutching his side, a dark red gash on his arm. She wanted to yell at him, demand to know where he had gone, why the hell he had abandoned them, and then she'd seen him. She'd seen him and it had all come apart, because Henry was _right there_ and barreling head-first into her.

And now he's still in her arms and she knows she's tired because her mind is running in circles and the only thing that makes sense is that she can't let him go.

Just before she drifts off, she offers a silent thank you to a deity somewhere.

* * *

Four hours of sleep is more than she's had in a while, but it's not enough to make up for the nights spent pouring over maps because sleep means nightmares of all kinds, when it does manage to come at all.

And now Henry is with Regina and Emma desperately wants to hold him in her arms, bitterly thinks that Regina has had him for so long and Emma's moments have been stolen and stunted. She just wants her kid.

But she loves Henry and Henry loves Regina.

So Emma is lying in her bed wishing for both sleep and alertness. It's a losing battle either way and Emma is so close to losing it. She's got Henry and her parents and it's more than she's had at once in a while, but she still feels like she's breaking.

Making a spontaneous decision, she sits up and pulls her boots on. Maybe she just needs some air. Fresh air.

When she gets on deck, it's like someone turned a valve because the pressure just drops out of her. The stars in Neverland are bright, especially in the middle of the sea, and Emma has always loved the peacefulness of the sky. Its possibility and freedom.

They'd left the island that morning, and already it was a dim speck on the horizon. The ship had more than enough supplies to last months, and after everything, they had all agreed that the faster they got away from Neverland, the better. Of course, the hard part was finding a way home.

Leaning against the edge of the ship, looking down at the waves lapping at the side of the Jolly Rodger. All the drama that's happened since they set foot on this ship, and Emma still finds herself falling in love with it. She's not too fond of feeling trapped, of having nowhere else to go, but on quiet nights like this, it's not so bad. She doesn't have to think if she doesn't want to.

Of course, thinking things like that always ends up causing more trouble, because without warning, Hook is beside her. Not too close, _thank god_, but close enough that all that tension comes back with a vengeance.

Things have been better between them; more tolerable, easier, since that day on the beach. He's learned to not push her, to not touch her, and if anyone else notices that his every step around her is on eggshells, they haven't commented.

She knows he's trying to not freak her out by not speaking, but really, all that's happening is that the space between them is filling with the silence and Emma hates it. It's nice that he's being so considerate, but she hates it. She hates that _she_ has to be treated so carefully. She's not a fucking china doll, for Christ's sake.

"Can't sleep?" She says to break the silence, and immediately wishes she hadn't, or at the very least, had said anything else, because that's the first thing he'd said to her that night, the first time, when she had been so angry and his smirk had only made her angrier.

He can't have possibly missed it, but he doesn't react to it the way he would have before; no smart remark, no raised eyebrows, he just drops his head towards his chest a little and breathes.

Her attempt at starting a conversation having failed so spectacularly, Emma grits her teeth. She hasn't been looking forward to talking with him, but now's as good a time as any. She'll tell him thank you and then escape back to her cabin where she can wallow in peace.

She turns towards him, tensing for whatever happens next, but the way he winces before pushing himself away from the ship's side sets her even more on edge. Goddamn it.

"Look, Hook-" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"Stop, Emma, I know what you're going to say." He holds his hand up and she has to fight the childish urge to snap her teeth at it just to get a rise. She's pissed; seriously? _Now_ he's presuming to know her? But he carries on anyway. "You shouldn't be thanking me."

"What?" she says. And thinks, for two very different reasons. Firstly, wow, that's arrogant, except…well, that had been what she was going to say. Secondly, _what_? Since when has he turned down an appreciative(even grudgingly) Emma Swan?

His eyes narrow at her. "I said, you shouldn't thank me."

There's something about him that sparks her, and these days, it's anger. She doesn't know why she's so pissed at him(yes she does, but she's not admitting that, even in the safety of her own head).

"No, I heard you. I mean, _what_? What makes you think I was gonna say that?" He opens his mouth, and it's a smirk and she'd rather walk on broken glass than hear whatever he's about to say, so she continues on, "And why the _hell_ shouldn't I? You-" _oh god Emma, breathe_ "You saved Henry."

He stares at her, that deep gaze that she hates so much because it feels like he's reading her soul and he's taking something that doesn't belong to him. He's not allowed touch her, much less rip into her soul and read it like she's a fucking picture book.

But then he turns around and starts to limp away, his walk affected by the wound in his side that she knows probably hurts like hell on top of his barely healed ribs. She should care, because he got that helping her, but all that consumes her is that rage. It's unique to him and it's been festering for two days.

"Hey! Don't you walk away from me! You _owe_ me, remember?" She doesn't care that her voice is rising and that this isn't a conversation they should be having out on the deck in the open air. All that matters is he's walking away, shutting her out, and he can't do that, she won't let him, he's done enough damage and she can't let him do more. Everything he touches breaks, including her, and she's not gonna let him keep pretending that ignoring his problems makes them go away.

He stops. For a moment, it's quiet, aside from the sound of the waves and the ship creaking and the wind hitting the sails.

He turns on her, and she knows he's too far away to reach because that's the only think keeping her from…doing something. Running. Punching him again. Anything. The look that flashes across his face is less than pleasant, more Hook than Killian Jones. The bruise on his cheek from his fight with the shadow makes his face darker and harsher in the limited light. But it passes and he's back, not exactly soft, but covering himself with indifference that does a truly shitty job at hiding what he's feeling.

"I don't _want_ your thanks, Emma," he hisses at her. He doesn't move, which she appreciates, but he still sounds like he could be right in front of her. Vaguely she remembers that sound travels better across open water.

"Yeah, _I get that_," she retorts, "what I don't get is _why_."

"Because! You just said it." And now he's moving back towards her, stalking as best as he can through the pain, but Emma stands her ground, refuses to let herself fall prey to his intimidation attempts, because this isn't about _that_, it's about _him_. "I _owe_ you," he continues, spitting it out at her, a mockery of how she'd accused him. He's an arm's reach away and she can see the storm in his eyes and it scares that part of her that will always be scared of him, that will always look for the hints of Captain Hook in the body of Killian Jones.

He's glaring at her and she's glaring at him. Stalemate. Emma is determined to not break first, which she knows means they have a long night ahead of them, because the only person as unrelentingly stubborn as her is the one she's up against right now.

Surprisingly, he speaks, snapping the tension like a broken rubber band.

"I, how do you put it, so charmingly, I _fucked up_, Emma. I'm never going to be able to go back and _fix_ that. So, yeah, I owe you." His words are heavy, and there's anger still burning in them, but Emma's not stupid. She gets him; she sees the miles of self-loathing. Recognizes it maybe a little too well.

Sighing, she turns around and walks up, towards the bow. This is going so much worse than she ever imagined. She just wanted to thank him and get the hell away. He's trailing behind her, like there's an invisible line connecting them as she circles the mast, and it makes her heart skip. She's ashamed to say it's not even the tiniest bit due to fear.

"I don't care what you think, Hook," she says gruffly, trying not to let her emotions show. It's too much, _she didn't fucking ask for this_. Her eyes are watering, for heaven's sake. She pulls up short and turns on him, her back to the mast. "Thank you," she says, and this time she lets her voice drop, tries to push as much sincerity as she can into the words. Because she is sincere. Without him, she wouldn't have her son. Without him, she would have been lost. And as much as it frustrates her, it's true, and he deserves a thank you.

His eyes darken and he stiffens. Really, nobody should get that upset over being thanked. In a second, he's in front of her, his hand hovering over her cheek. She's got room to step back, to flee, but she stands her ground.

"Emma, love, you don't understand." His hand drops to her shoulder, playing with her curls before grasping it firmly. "What you saw," he pauses before continuing, and Emma knows where it's going but lets him anyways, "_what I did_, that's Hook. He's me." His voice lowers. "For a very, very long time, he was the only me," he whispers, voice tight, "imagine him, stretched out over centuries."

He lets go of her shoulder and drops his hand to his hook, rubbing at the shiny metal.

"There's more on my hands than you can possibly imagine," he says, and for once he can't look at her.

"Screw that, you think I'm some kind of hero?" she spits at him, and he does look up at her then. "Do you think anyone is perfect? Because, let me tell you, I've done things that would make your crocodile blush, I'm sure."

"Really," he says, shuffling closer into her personal space, "_have you_, Emma? Tell me, have you ever pulled a man's guts out through his stomach because he cheated you? Because I have." The last words come out as a growl, brushing across her skin, sending goose bumps down her arms. "I promise you, darling, I'm the terrifying one."

And right then, it was too much, he was too close, his breath on her face and his body so close to hers, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. So she took a step back, turned and walked around him.

His eyes follow her, careful, calculating. Too cold for her tastes.

"I'm not gonna argue with you over this. Frankly, I don't care. You saved Henry. So thank you." She's done with this conversation, heading for the steps that lead below deck, but his voice turns her around. Damn him.

"Emma!" His fist is clenched by his side, skin white in the darkness. "I don't want your thanks. I don't _want_ your acceptance." She narrows her eyes at him.

"Tough shit, then."

He stands there, silent, looking at her. She's pretty sure he's gonna burst a blood vessel in his face or something. For once, she thanks the stars that she's not the one swimming in emotions. All she feels is drained, exhausted, too damn tired for this shit.

Of course, he has to screw that up for her too. Because he stalks over to her, yanking on her wrist, pulling her towards him rather unceremoniously. Her heart is suddenly racing, pounding against her chest. She could scream, right now, and she knows that everyone would be on deck in a minute. Including her parents and her son.

Instead, she jerks her arm away from him and turns, but he grabs her again. She stands her ground but he tugs, hard, and it throws her balance, sending her tripping right back towards him, eyes wide with fury.

"Really, Emma? You can _forgive_ me?" His voice is low, ghosting across her skin. He doesn't touch her aside from his iron grip around her wrist, his body just far enough away. He leans in, his face just inches from hers. "Can you forgive _everything_ I've done well enough to offer me your thanks? Do you really think a man such as myself would accept your words? _Just_ your words? When I could have so much more?" She narrows her eyes.

"No." She jerks again, and this time he lets her go. She takes a step back, far enough to put some distance between the two of them. Enough distance to pull her fist back and punch him. He reels back, hand going up to his nose. It's strangely satisfying to punch him in the face. Almost makes her wish she did it more.

She follows him back, pushing her advantage. After stumbling a few more steps, he comes to a stop, glaring at her from above his bloody nose.

"Don't pretend you didn't deserve that," she retorts at his look, and if his eyes soften just a little bit, she'll say it's a trick of the light.

"I do believe that was the point I was trying to get across, my dear." He's smirking behind his hand, even when it comes away smeared with blood.

Emma shakes her head. She'll never get it across to him; she doesn't know why she's ever bothering. She said her piece; she should be back in her bed right now.

Instead she puts her hands on her hips and glares at him.

"You saved my son. You came back to us. You keep coming back, even when you have no reason to."

He's not smirking anymore, his glare matching hers.

"And what about us, Emma? What about what I did to you? Does that not speak to my irredeemable soul?" His voice is dark again, like he's trying to convince the both of him. He may be able to read her, but she has him at a disadvantage. He's teetering, she can tell, caught between doing what's right and everything he feels, the emotions pumping through him. She recognizes it too well.

"You're not irredeemable. You're just…you're screwed up. You've done horrible things. But Hook isn't the only part of you." His eyes narrow. She knows he's expecting some kind of final blow. "If you think that's all you are, then why did you say what you did on the beach?"

"Because I _needed_ you!" He roars at her, the explosion knocking her back a bit. She's surprised, wasn't expecting that, but then she catches on. His face is caving in, like the wind taken out of his sails. Strings cut. It's scarier than the dark brooding version of him, because she doesn't know what to do with this kind of rawness.

"You think I did everything, for what? You don't understand." He's taking back ground now, advancing on her, using his pain as a weapon. "Your son, do you know who he is? Have you put the pieces together?"

Emma has a sinking feeling that the tide has very suddenly turned against her, that there's a current nipping at her feet.

"Your son, _Baelfire's_ son. Do you get it, Emma?" His voice is cracking. "He's _her grandson_, and without you, he ends up just like the rest of us. An orphan."

And then it dawns on her, everything falling into place. She knows who he's talking about. The woman from his tattoo. Milah. Rumple's wife. Neal's mother. His face is open, honest. Emma doesn't like it. She can look into his eyes and see everything, and it's not something she enjoys. This is what he sees when he looks at her.

She hates it.

"I would do anything for her. I spent centuries chasing vengeance _for her_. I turned into a monster because I could not let him take _everything_ from us. Don't you get it, Emma?" His hand comes up, still smeared with the blood from his nose, and cups her cheek. She doesn't like it; it feels too intimate, too close. "You're dangerous to me, because for the first time in a very, very long time, you made Captain Hook forget who he was supposed to be." His voice drops to a whisper. "You make me realize just how long I had been falling apart. And then you turned around and showed me a way out."

"Hook-," she tries to say, to edge in something, because she doesn't like the way this is heading.

"I love her. I always will. _I would do anything_ for her. I was ready to die for my vengeance. But I was so tired. And you gave me a way to honor her without death. So, yes, I'm sorry. Because I let _him_ control me, and I swore I wouldn't." He's starting to cover himself up again, putting his walls back up, rebuilding the cracks and holes.

"I need you, because without you, without bringing your son back to his family, all I have is vengeance. She – She's long gone. And this is all I have left anymore."

He drops his hand from her cheek and just stares at her, willing her to understand. Which she does. God, she does. She understands the gaping hole in your chest, the one that sucks a vortex down inside your soul because you've lost the only thing you've ever loved and life isn't fair enough to give you a way out of the black hole.

She thinks he senses her understanding, because the openness in his expression is fading, now, replaced by a bone-weary exhaustion that she recognizes too well. But she still has one last question.

"What are you planning on doing when we get back to Storybrooke, then?" she asks, and his lips quirk, enough to let her know that Hook is fading away, and Killian Jones is returning.

"Haven't figured that part out yet, love. One thing at a time," he says, smiling wanly. It's amazing how fast he can slip in and out of his walls. One second he's another person, and then he's got his flirty smile and stupid words and eyebrows with lives of their own. She much prefers this version of him, probably because this is the man she let in, if only for a little while. The infuriatingly smug man who liked to try to kiss her when her parents were looking and always had a quip on hand about her sexual prowess.

"Yeah," she admits, "we kind of ran into this head-first, didn't we? Not a plan in sight." He chuckles and it's almost hard to believe that his soul was laid out in front of her just minutes ago.

"Believe me, my dear, I know how that feels," he says, the smile fading a little bit, surely thinking of his revenge.

The silence is more comfortable than it was before, but it still bothers Emma. She feels more than a little exposed from his confession. She feels lopsided, like everything is on her now. More secrets than good sense. She came out here looking for an escape, and somehow found herself in a conversation she'd never meant to have.

Story of her life.

She wanted to offer something, to let him know she got it, that she was willing to share, to try to work at something. And understanding.

"Neal was the one who left me," she blurts out, and instantly wants to bury her head in her hands. _Jeez, Emma, smooth, great, tell the dark scary pirate your one big secret. _

He doesn't even bat an eye at her, though, which makes it worse, because that means he already guessed.

"While disappointing, that's not terribly surprising." His eyes shift to over her shoulder, lets his voice take on a distant quality. "Men like us, we often become our fathers. Whether we want to or not."

Trying to ignore the way he had said _men like us_, Emma snorted. "You can say that again. Once a coward, always a coward."

He chuckles again, some amusing secret of his own, no doubt, and the sound is light, and it feels good. Makes her think of better times, the few that have been.

"You know, for all that you've broken my trust," she says, catching his eyes, bringing him back to her, "you didn't abandon me. Just like you said." It hurts her pride to admit it, that maybe she had been wrong, but Emma can swallow a little pride for the greater good.

He smiles softly, and it's contagious; Emma can feel her lips curling up in agreement.

"And yet sometimes, we're nothing like our parents," he says, his smile turning wistful. He lets the silence fall after his remark, turning his gaze back to the ocean.

"God, I hope not," she says, trying to inject some levity back into things. He cracks a smile and god, it shouldn't make her feel this accomplished. This good.

She hates this, the way she gets around him. He makes her feel like she's sixteen again with a crush on some stupidly smug boy at school who only ever wanted in her pants, and she knew it, but she let him anyways because she liked the way he smiled at her.

Except she's already let this boy with his charming smile and dark looks in her pants and he fucked up and she's _still_ standing here next to him on his ship. And she hates the feeling. Like she's letting him control her, except he can barely control himself, and that makes it worse because it means that she's doing this all herself.

Her thoughts are getting too deep for being this close to him, with this much exposed to the air.

If she stays, she might do something else she regrets, and she doesn't dare explore that line of thought any further.

Abruptly, she decides it's time to head back to her cabin.

"And that's my cue to go to bed," she says, ignoring his raised eyebrow. "Goodnight, Hook." She turns to go, but he reaches out for her hand and gently brings it to his lips, brushing the skin. She wants to roll her eyes at him, but they get stuck on him.

"Goodnight, darling," he says, and the bastard sounds pleased with himself. It sounds good on him, like it always does. _Fucking hell, Emma_, she thinks. _Get yourself together_.

She raises an eyebrow at him and pulls her hand away. Finally, she regains the ability to move, and now she rolls her eyes. He smirks, but she's already turned, walking purposefully for the steps that lead below deck.

It's not until she's back in her bed, under the covers, that she realizes how firmly stuck in her head he is, how she replays every second she just spent with him, analyzing, trying to figure it out. To figure him out, to figure herself out.

She doesn't get the sleep she was looking for, of course.


	4. Chapter 4

This is a bad idea.

She knows it in her head, knows it in her footsteps, quiet as they are.

His door is suddenly in front of her, and she takes a deep breath at the familiarity of her situation.

She's not here for sex, because that ship has sailed and it isn't coming back. But maybe he can still help her. They seem to have reached a peaceful state of their relationship. It seems ridiculous to say, but it's true. After their discussion on the deck things have been better. Fewer eggshells. She's relaxed around him. The air is clear enough, and it feels good to have nothing to beat around the bush about. In the days since their talk not a single warning bell has gone off in her head, which Emma is smart enough to call a win.

Anyways. She's standing here because she's stupid and she won't ever admit it to him, but she misses sleeping next to someone, especially now that Henry is alternating between her and Regina at night these days.

And, as much as she doesn't fully trust him, she certainly likes him more than she likes being alone.

_If you think it's a bad idea, it probably is._

Sometimes Emma hates that voice of common sense. Instead of listening to it and wisely returning to her room for a restless night of no sleep, she lifts her fist and knocks.

It's silent for a minute and she's already regretting it when she hears his muffled voice telling her to come in. She swings the door open just enough to slip in, and then shuts it behind her. The dull thump of it closing is enough to push her heart rate up, and when she turns to see him, it goes wild.

He's looking at her, startled to see her, apparently, as though he was expecting anyone else. His hand is frozen on the hem of his shirt, halfway up his stomach. There's nothing different about him; it's not like she hasn't seen him naked dozens of times, and he's not even half-naked right now.

It's just; she hasn't been in his cabin since _then_, and he's _watching_ her and she can practically _feel_ the material of his shirt against her skin.

It hardly seems real to her. It's dark, lit by a single lantern hanging in the center of the room(like she knows it always is at night).

It had been day then, no shadows except the ones in his eyes.

Oh god. Emma clenches her eyes shut, tries to think of the last time they'd talked, on deck, the wind in her hair, his hand on her cheek, the honesty in his voice. Anything to not think of _it_. But even in her memories, things are distorted. Her brain throws a hunger in his eyes that she knows hadn't been there, reads the heat radiating off of him as actual contact, adds a possessive grip to the way he had held her hand.

This was such a bad idea. Her stomach is roiling and she still can't open her eyes, everything coming in waves. It feels like it's been hours and minutes and she's gasping, she knows it, but all that she can feel is the lack of air, like it's all been sucked out and she wants to kick herself, revolt against her body's reaction. There are a million hands on her, bright searing points of light, burning, bruising, and she feels like she's about to drown.

"Emma?"

There's a voice trying to break through, familiar but distant. Something brushes against the back of her hand, then slips inside, gripping her fingers.

"Emma!"

She doesn't want to open her eyes, to see what's beyond her eyelids even though what she's seeing, what she's feeling, it's too much and she's gonna explode from it. The onslaught is too familiar, too dangerous.

It's not until she feels her knees buckling that she manages to overcome it enough to open her eyes. He's there, right in front of her, and as clichéd as it sounds, all she can see is his eyes. She focuses on that, his fingers squeezing hers so tightly it hurts. Right. He's here. He's right in front of her. She can see him. Nothing is happening. It's all in her head. Her over-active mind trying to betray her.

"Shit," is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, and it breaks the tension. He lets out a breath she hadn't noticed him holding and a small smile crosses his face. She furrows her brows, trying to figure out what he's smiling about. Then he looks down at her other hand, fisted in his shirt.

Oh. Right.

She lets go, quickly, dropping her hand, but he's still smiling, softly, reassuringly. Oh, god. She had a freaking _panic attack_. It makes her want to crawl into a hole and die. Groaning, she lifts her hands to scrub at her face. He lets her hand go, and she's proud to say she only stumbles a little bit.

"This was a bad idea," she mutters through her fingers, and she knows her face is red, can feel the heat of embarrassment rising. Ugh. She just wants to be over this all ready. She is over it, she honestly is. Obviously she trusts him enough to come to his cabin in the middle of the night, alone. Which actually, now that she thinks about it, might not have been her most well-thought-out plan of late.

God, she hates herself sometimes.

When she finally lowers her hands, she sees he's still watching her, head tilted curiously to the side. It's a look she's seen on him many times before, and it never ceases to make her feel like a bug under a microscope.

She wants to turn away, put some distance between them, but her feet won't move, won't let her put her back to him. Which makes sense, from a self-preservation standpoint, but it makes her feel even more like a deer caught in headlights. She swears if she ever regains the ability to move, she's getting out of here.

He must notice the panic starting to set back into her eyes, though, because he blinks suddenly and turns away himself, pacing further into the room. The added distance does wonders for her breathing, and she gulps in air. It hadn't occurred to her before that her breathing had been so shallow.

"Why _are_ you here, Emma?" he asks, breaking her focused breathing. She blinks owlishly, knows she must look like a fool standing here trying to process his words.

The worst part is, she doesn't have a good answer for him. She knows, of course, why she's here. But she can't tell him that. She can't tell him that she hasn't had a full night's sleep since they stopped sleeping together, that her brain is eternally fried and as much as her body shies away from him, she sort of misses him and gentle touches, waking up to the smell of his sheets.

She doesn't want to stir that nest.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a response.

She doesn't know what to say, what he wants to hear. Instead, she walks over to his bed, careful to not turn her back on him, and sits down, reaching down to ease off her shoes, focusing entirely on that, the slide as they come off, wriggling her toes in the air.

"Emma," his voice has taken on a new tone, guarded, careful. "What are you doing, lass?"

Her task finished, bare-footed now, she tucks her feet up under her. She finds the feel of the deck under her toes too much these days. Finally deciding that she's maybe together enough, she looks up at him.

He's on the other side of the room, practically, watching her carefully. His body is tense, wound tight, she can see it from here. He's worried about her, and a little scared of what she's doing, thinking, planning. It sends a pang of sadness through her. That here they are, him scared of her, him worrying about her, him standing on the other side of the room when once upon a time Emma Swan in his bed would have made him spout off at how he had rules, no women in his bed without him. She would have laughed at that, dared him to prove it, and he would have. She would never give to his flirtations in the light of day, but when she had been with him, it had been okay. A little pocket of pretending that everything would turn out fine, that he was charming and decent and she was just a girl looking for a good time and a comfortable bed.

She heaves out a breath, wincing at the sound it makes in the silence of the room. The lantern overhead creaks and swings with the rocking of the ship, and she can hear the sea, the ship, everything moving, always moving, but she has learned to tune it all out, to listen to the sounds of breathing and footsteps.

"I'm getting ready for bed," she says, finally.

"Emma-," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Look, I don't want to talk. I just want to sleep." It's not a question, and she knows he would never tell her no anyways. Looking at him now, she knows he would pull the sun out of the sky if it was within his power, if it would make her okay. It sends a warm rush of something through her, even if it's entirely stupid, because he caused this in the first place. He _should_ be trying to make things okay.

He doesn't unwind, but his shoulders lower a little. He's still watching her, though, wary. She doesn't want that, but at the same time, she won't give him any more. She can't.

She's in his cabin, _in his bed_, and if they talk...she knows exactly what she'd do, and she can't think about it. Won't, because it will feel like kind words and soft touches and she will do things that will only make them worse. She's already played that card, and sleeping with him led her here. It doesn't _fix_ anything. She's too fragile right now, goddamn her, to play with fire.

Sighing, she lifts her hand, runs her fingers through her hair. He's still standing there, and she thinks maybe he's slowly relaxing. A little.

"Get your ass over here, Jones," she says, trying to soften it as much as she can. Which isn't much, because she's still learning softness, but she thinks maybe he appreciates the command because the corner of his mouth quirks up. He loosens, his shoulders relaxing.

"Of course, m'lady," he says with a quick mock-bow. He smirks, and she knows he's trying because there's not a hint of innuendo in it. Just a good old-fashioned smarmy-ass smirk.

She rolls her eyes and he chuckles and it makes her feel good, makes her forget that she just had a panic attack at his door and swore she was walking away.

He pulls her out of her thoughts when he sits next to her, shoulder to shoulder, touching, but barely. He kicks his boots off quickly, and then scoots back before laying flat on the far side of the bed, offering her the side closer to the door.

He's a perceptive little shit, and though he uses it to force her hand more often than not, she appreciates it now. Rolling her shoulders, she takes a deep breath.

"Emma, are you sure?" his soft voice comes from behind her, and it takes her a minute to register that he's behind her, she gave him her back. And he did nothing. She _knew_ it would be fine, but still. A small part of her relaxes.

Instead of speaking, she turns and lays down herself, flat on her back, giving the only answer she has planned. She closes her eyes, knows he's watching her, can feel his gaze. Can feel the way he's holding himself tight, keeping his arms and legs to himself. There's a valley between them, physical and beyond

That isn't why she's here.

She sighs and rolls to face him, catching his eyes with her own. For a minute, just a minute, she lets herself get lost. One small concession. He's not gonna waggle his eyebrows and say something suggestive. He's going to give her this moment because she wants it and he's trying. After a long moment, she blinks a few times.

"You can touch me," she says on an exhale, closing her eyes again. It's supposed to sound light, not breathy, but it does. She's past the point of caring, though, because she's sinking into the mattress and his has always been better than hers, there's something soothing about it. His hand tentatively brushes the back of hers, and he leaves it there, the rough skin on the tips of his fingers splayed across her knuckles.

"Just," she pauses, takes a deep breath, knowing she has to say this, to exert one bit of control, as much as she doesn't want to say it, as much as she knows he doesn't want to hear it. "Just don't _touch_ me."

She can feel him stiffen, even through the air between them.

"Emma." She slides her eyes open to find his, much closer than she had realized. A million things are swimming behind them, and she know he's hurt, and it doesn't make her feel good, but she had to say it. This is one thing she has to say. No, now that she can. It hangs in the air between them, and he lifts his hand, brushes it across her cheek.

"I wouldn't, you have to know that, I _wouldn't_, I-I," he stutters, and she recognizes the feeling too well. Knowing what to say without knowing how to. But she gets it, sees it.

"Yeah," she murmurs. He breathes out, frustrated, and she rolls over, putting her back to him, trying to show him that it's okay. She trusts him. Tentatively, she feels him move. His shoulders brush against her back and his arm goes across her waist and she has to breathe deep for a minute. This is okay. She wanted this.

He relaxes fully, and she realizes just how he'd been holding himself in, rigid. But now he's soft, his breath warm and tickling at the side of her neck. It's comforting, comfortable. His breathing evens out surprisingly fast once that happens, she notices, and he's out. Like maybe he'd missed her too.

The final holdout in her crumbles at the knowledge that he just fell asleep first. She couldn't, knew in the back of her mind that if he tried to wait for her to go to sleep, it was never going to happen. She trusts him, but she doubts she'll ever let herself fall asleep first again.

Either way, her thoughts are slowing down, draining away in her exhaustion. His chest is rhythmically pressing against her back with every breath, and before she realizes it, she's syncing up with him, breathing in and out in tandem. It's the last thing she notices before sleep finally takes her.

* * *

She's awoken the next morning by the fact that, for all his charm and smoothness, Killian Jones can be surprisingly ungainly sometimes. Or, that's what she assumes when he attempts to crawl over her to get out of bed. It's the missing warmth, the physical touch, that she notices first as she comes to.

Her eyes are still closed, reluctant to give way to the brightness of the daylight, but she can feel him in the room, shuffling around. She doesn't want to open her eyes, honestly. Wants to keep pretending that she's okay, fine.

It occurs to her the second she opens her eyes that maybe his waking her up hadn't been entirely unintentional, because he's standing with his back to her, shirtless, practically _preening_ in front of his wardrobe. He catches sight of her in the mirror, notices her staring and grins.

"See something you like, darling?" He's back. He raises an eyebrow at her and she knows he's not serious, that he's teasing her with very little intent behind it. And it's working, because she's too busy thinking about what a ridiculous peacock he is to allow anything else into her head.

Rolling her eyes, she stretches in the bed. "You wish, maybe." This, this is safe ground, banter and teasing that she doesn't mind so much now.

He chuckles and pulls out a shirt and vest, laying them out, taking his time, she knows, showing off. Giving her a show. The worst part is that she's actually taking advantage of it. Of course he's attractive; she doubts anyone would be able to deny that. And she knows from experience that he's warm and firm in all the right places. He's not beefy, but a life at sea has toned him nicely, underneath it all.

Shit. He's turned around, now, and he's watching her watch him, bemusement faint on his features. She groans and snaps her eyes shut. This shouldn't be happening. She's not doing the right thing, she's not _feeling_ the right things.

Why does he still send sparks through her veins? Why does she still allow herself to get lost in his eyes, his face, his fucking body? She feels like a traitor to herself, to all the promises she's made and all the anger she's felt. She doesn't accept betrayal, refuses broken trust. But here she is.

Trying to ignore the conflict raging in her head, she flips herself over onto her stomach and curls further into the bed. It's comfortable and warm and one night's sleep isn't enough to beat away the exhaustion that follows her everywhere.

She hears him chuckle, his boots click on the flooring.

"Emma, love," he says, his hand coming down on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She opens her eyes, and instantly regrets it. He's crouched next to the bed, _still not wearing a fucking shirt, jesus christ_, his face startlingly close to hers.

Her heart rate picks up at his proximity, though it's a less than justifiable response, because she knows it's not fear that's stirring in her.

"You should get up. I expect your family will be looking for you," he continues, and Emma blinks. Right. Henry.

As if his words have summoned it, the door to his cabin is thrown open, David standing there, slightly out of breath, his eyes wild.

"Hook, we can't find Emma-" he stops, startled when his panicked eyes fall on them. Suddenly Emma is very, very aware of what this looks like, his proximity, his lack of clothing, his hand still resting on her shoulder, her in his bed, snuggled in quite comfortably, and she feels a blush beginning to creep up her neck. Hook, for his part, just grins and winks at her before rising to face her father.

"I do believe I've found her," he says, and even though Emma can't see his face, she knows he's smirking at her father.

David's eyes narrow, and he glances from Emma to Hook, his gaze boring into the pirate. Emma has to roll her eyes. He's been worse; she knows David's not stupid, has picked up on the tension between the two of them. If he was a protective cock-block before, it's been magnified a million times since.

Sighing, Emma sits up and throws her legs over the edge of the bed, catching David's eyes. His gaze softens when he looks at her, full of love and hope and gentle affection and it still sends a rush through her; love and warmth and even this far into things, a little bit of fear.

She smiles and he smiles back, time freezing for just a second. It's a second Emma wishes she could keep forever, because it hits her like a punch to the stomach that this is what her life is now; a family that cares about her, that comes looking when she disappears.

The moment is broken when Henry comes careening into the room, shouting. "Mom!?" He's on her in a flash, barreling into her arms and it throws her back, pushes the air out of her lungs.

"Hey, kid," she says, hugging him back just as tightly.

"We thought something happened to you!" he says tilting his head up at her, his face questioning. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that Hook has finally thrown a shirt on and is buttoning his vest, very carefully not looking at her, giving her a moment with her son.

"Sorry, I just had to come see Hook about something," it's a lame excuse even to her ears, and she knows from the sparkle in Henry's eye that he sees right through it. Damn kid's always been too smart for his own good. She releases him and nudges him with her shoulder. "Here, let me get my shoes on and then we can go reassure Mary-Margaret."

Of course, when she glances up from pulling her boots on, his attention is already elsewhere, looking around the room in wonder, at the bookcase full of what Emma is sure are ancient books, the desk covered in maps and paper and all kinds of sailing tools, some of which he must recognize because his eyes light up and he takes a step towards it.

Hook is leaning next to the door, a grin spreading across his features as he notices the boy's fascination. Shaking her head, Emma returns to focusing on pulling on her last boot, rising as she slides her foot in. She rolls her neck, and rubs her hands on her pants before calling out to Henry.

"C'mon, kid," she says, holding her hand out to him, and he hesitates just a second before taking her hand and pulling her out the door. As she passes Hook, she dips her head just a little bit, a thank you, as much as she can communicate in that one small glance. His eyes soften and he smiles at her, just for a second, and then she's in the passageway and Henry is pulling her out onto the deck.

It's not until she sees Mary-Margaret deep in discussion with Regina, Gold off at the prow, that she realizes David never followed her and Henry out of Hook's cabin.

* * *

The next time she sees her father, after all the reassurances and eye-rolls from Regina and hugs from her mother (seriously, where exactly could she have gone? she spends one unexpected night with Hook and suddenly everyone is freaking out about her safety). The instant she has a second, she pulls him aside.

"What did you do?" He looks at her, trying to feign innocence, but Emma knows better.

"Nothing!" She narrows her eyes at him.

"Don't make me ask him, David," she says, and he sighs, reaching for her shoulder.

"Emma, I'm your father. I'm not stupid. I know something's been different between you two," his eyes shift, looking anywhere but hers. "We just...had a talk. That's all."

"Was it anything like the talk where you threatened to _throw him off of his own ship_?"

His shifty look is all the answer she needs. She takes a deep calming breath, trying to expel her frustration into the air.

"Look, I know you care about me, but it's _fine_. I promise."

She catches his eyes, forces him to look at her. He watches her for a moment, and she wonders if this is what it feels like when she scrutinizes people, tries to figure out if they're lying to her. Finally, he sighs.

"You know I love you and just want what's best, right?" She lets herself smile at him.

"Yeah, I know," she says, and he smiles softly at her before pulling her in, hugging her tight against his chest. It feels _good_, and she squeezes him back, enjoys the moment. It's something she never thought she'd have; father-daughter bonding, and as much as it freaks her out still, the idea that she has a father, she can at least enjoy this much.

After a moment, he lets her go, steps back, still smiling at her.

It's stupidly simple, but right here, stuck in a far-away realm with no way to get home, she feels okay. She's got her family, everyone who cares, right here on this ship.

The fact that one particular Captain seems to be edging his way into that group(completely against her own common sense) doesn't escape her notice.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the delay with this chapter, as well as its length. The muse and these characters have been fighting me every step of this chapter, but hopefully now they'll cool down and let me finish the story.

* * *

"I was hoping you'd be back." He's sitting at the foot of his bed, boots already kicked off, elbows on his knees, waiting. Waiting for her. His little flask is lying next to him on the bed, and it does little to ease Emma's nerves.

Emma raises an eyebrow at him, and he continues. "What, you thought you were the only one who hates sleeping alone?"

That's a topic she doesn't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Or any length of pole, really. Instead, she moves forward and sits next to him, easing her own shoes off. He doesn't smell like rum, so that's a plus. Means he hasn't been drinking a lot. She probably wouldn't stay if he had.

He's watching her though, and apparently there's enough alcohol in his system that he's not even playing at naivety, not even trying to be cautious.

"How'd you know?" She changes the subject, desperate to keep him from looking at her like that, boring into her soul.

Thankfully, his eyes go distant and he looks away from her, around the room.

"You have a look about you when your son's not with you." His voice lowers. "A look I'm all too familiar with."

Emma narrows her eyes at him, blatantly ignoring his implication. She doesn't want to deal with his heart-to-heart soul-searching crap. Not now, and not ever if she can get away with it.

"Just how much of that have you had to drink, buddy?"

He snorts at that, sliding his eyes back to her.

"Pirate, love. We can hold our liquor," he says, reaching for the flask. Emma snatches it out of his hand before he can take a drink, earning herself a glare. It's surprisingly light. Maybe more than she thought.

"That's not an answer, Hook." He doesn't respond, just stares at her, petulantly. God, he's such a child sometimes. "Fine," she says, standing. "Enjoy your rum, pirate." She tosses the flask back on the bed and turns to go.

"Emma, wait."

His hand is out, reaching for hers, just inches away, but apparently he actually thinks about it for a half-second because he pulls it back, awkwardly transitions to rubbing at his hook, looking at her, his eyes thrown open to her, exactly like they'd been that night on deck, just days ago. "Don't, okay? Please?"

Jesus, he looks fucking _vulnerable_. Maybe he'd had more to drink than she thought. He's not supposed to be vulnerable. She's the only one allowed that luxury.

"I miss you," he says, barely audible, but it's enough to draw her out of her thoughts, pull her back to him.

Emma scrubs at her face, weighing whether this is truly worth it, if this is something she wants to deal with tonight. She opens her eyes to find him still watching her, far too clear-eyed and still pleading. He wasn't supposed to be pleading. He's a fucking _pirate_ for God's sake.

He isn't supposed to be trying to earn her sympathy, to earn his way back into her life.

She isn't supposed to be _letting_ him.

When she doesn't reply, he must decide it's unspoken assent, and he plows onwards.

"Don't you know that I regret what happened every single minute of every day?" His voice is soft, resigned, the polar opposite of the last time he had exposed himself, revealed this part of him. "You know I would do anything to fix it; you were never meant to be broken, least of all by me." He looks down at the flask in his hand, finally turning away from Emma.

"I'm not broken," she replies, returning to sit beside him on the bed, but it sounds hollow to her own ears, despite her best attempts to strengthen her voice. She wants to cry at the weakness, wants to beat the shit out of him for making her into this, but she knows it's not his fault; he's just the latest in a long line to bring it out of her.

He smiles at her, cracked, and it's the only acknowledgement he gives to her statement.

"I never deserved you, and I'll never be able to make up for what happened." He takes a long swig of his rum, and this time, Emma lets him. A part of her is telling her to snag the flask away from him, take her own pull; if this is going where she thinks it is, she'll need it. But she _can't_ be that vulnerable, not when he's in the same state, a warm presence at her side. He's too fucking close to finding her heart, the soft spot she keeps nestled away, hidden behind behind brick walls.

Instead of giving way, she takes a deep breath and steels herself, throws sandbags against what's left of her walls, leans hard against the doors.

"It's not like we _had_ something, Hook. It wasn't a _relationship_. We were just fucking. And you screwed it up with fucking," she says, proud of the fact that her voice hardly wavers.

His response is a mirthless chuckle.

"You used to use my _name_. We had _that_." He sounds bitter. Good. Maybe he'll stop trying to _reach_ her now, understanding every little part of her that she's kept hidden for a reason.

"I still use your name." It's a weak deflection, and she knows it was the wrong thing to say that instant his gaze swivels back to her, disbelief apparent. It suddenly occurs to her that he might actually kick her out, unwilling to spend the night with someone so determined to blast holes into him, to rebuff his caring so completely.

"_Really_?"

She can't look him in the eye, and that's all the answer he apparently needs before he turns his attention back to fiddling with the cork to his flask, spearing it with the tip of his hook, pulling it out, pushing it back in, over and over again.

"Don't you have anything to say?" he says after a few minutes, apparently growing tired of his cork.

"There's nothing else to say," she says, the first thing that comes to mind, and for a second she's scared, worried he'll tell her to get out, that this is the end. That she chose this. Because the reality of him wanting to fix things _hurts_ like a motherfucker, it hurts so much she can't breathe, hurts more than watching them take her son away from her, so tiny and helpless and alone.

It hurts because it's someone who wants to undo the damage, soothe the open wounds, and it's suddenly very terrifying. She's been hurt, countless times by as many people, and now one of those people is wanting to make amends, is actually _trying_, and it's never happened before.

And it's too much.

She knows her actions betray her words; that coming to him is merely highlighting her denials as lies, but he doesn't comment on it, too far gone to notice or just maybe he doesn't care.

He empties his flask and sighs, dropping it; it hits the deck with a clatter.

Maybe he does notice.

"Go to sleep, Emma."

He's still sitting at the foot of the bed, silent as the night, when she closes her eyes.

* * *

The next morning he wakes her up with the sun, tells her that her son will want to spend time with her.

She leaves without a word, feeling the chasm between them crack open again.

* * *

That evening Henry is animated, finally edging back to himself. He doesn't want to go to sleep, barely is willing to cuddle with Emma, too willing to talk about Hook teaching him how to sail(finishing the job his father had started), David and Mary-Margaret telling stories of their home(the Enchanted Forest, it rings in her head, their home, not hers).

It hurts, even though she knows it's not intentional. He's not rejecting her, he's just an eleven-year-old boy whose relatives are all fairy tale characters with exciting stories and lives. But it stings anyways.

Snow must notice how quiet she is the next day, but Emma manages to avoid being alone with her, manages to avoid the inevitable questions. It's really sad the way she can go from so happy with her life to feeling like _this_ in just a matter of days, and it irks her that she _knows_ the source and hates that even rejecting his..._affection_ hurts. She was supposed to be dodging a bullet, not stepping into the line of fire.

Against her better judgement, because that's all she does anymore, ignores the tiny voice of reason, she goes to him that night, when Henry is back with Regina, and he doesn't say a word, just avoids her gaze and moves over for her.

She can tell from his breathing that he's not asleep, even though his eyes are closed.

Her hand seems to grow a mind of its own, because before she's aware of it, her hand searches out his body, brushing against his side.

He flinches but doesn't open his eyes.

"What are you playing at, Swan?"

She deserves that. What's worse is that she doesn't know what she's doing. Half of her is begging her to pull apart and run, and half of her is pushing her to curl against him and beg him to understand, and all of her is caught in the middle.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know anything anymore."

"What do you want from me?" He eases his eyes open and rolls to his side to face her, his gaze questioning.

It's too much, and she slides her eyes shut in frustration. At him, at herself, at everything.

"I don't know," she repeats.

"Look at me, Emma," he says, grasping at her fingers, squeezing tightly. She opens her eyes and wishes she didn't have to, didn't have to stare into his eyes, fucking blue-tinted windows to the soul. "You know how I feel. And I know how you feel. _So what are you doing_?"

She furrows her brow, not expecting his implication.

"No, I don't. I mean, I know you're sorry," she says, trying to puzzle out what is happening. A small part of her is poking the back of her mind, nagging at her, but it lives behind firmly closed doors, and so she ignores it.

He smiles. _Smiles_. It looks like a crack running through his face, and it makes her sad, again, knowing she did that. She knows she shouldn't feel guilty around him, that she has every right to hurt him, but she does anyway.

"For someone so perceptive, you're really quite adept at missing the obvious, aren't you, lass?" She blinks at that, but doesn't say anything. His smile looks less broken, less dangerous, but no less sad. "You...you're a spark, Emma. You certainly sparked me," he adds cheekily, and her lips quirk against her will. "But me...I'm cold. Too cold for your spark." The sad smile is back, now. "I'll put you out and I know it but I still want to _touch_ it."

And then it's like the calm before the storm; Emma remembers once in school they had showed them a video of a bomb test, how everything had been pleasant and quiet, bright blue skies one second, and _nothing_ in the next, and it feels like that.

Blue skies.

"I...care, love. A lot more than I was supposed to. And I don't just want to touch the spark. I'm a pirate; I want to steal it and hoard it and cherish it." He looks at her the way she hates; like she's fragile and perfect and all he needs.

And the bomb drops.

A part of her knew this was coming; recognized the possibility enough to flee him at the beanstalk so long ago. And that tiny part of her locked behind her walls recognizes the feeling far too well. She hates that part of herself, acknowledges it just enough to indulge in a little self-loathing.

He surely sees the mix of emotions on her face; she's an open book, after all, as he's so fond of reminding her, but he continues, his face falling flat, sad.

"But I won't." His face tightens at the words. "I know you've got that wall you built around that flame so high it makes climbing a beanstalk look easy. And I know part of that is my fault."

He releases her hand and it feels like Emma is frozen. Not out of fear, but from the swirling mixture of emotions that are chipping away at her insides. She flinches when he touches her cheek, and he smiles, cracked, as always.

"I won't hurt you again, Emma," he murmurs, a promise that she knows he will fulfill if it kills him. And all of a sudden, it's too much. He's too much. Fuck him. She squeezes her eyes shut and rolls over, putting her back to him and his stupid declarations and promises and the way he's already found his way past that wall and she won't _let_ him.

He sighs, but surely he expected it.

"Please don't do that," he says. "Don't act like you don't care, or like I'm surprising you." He reaches for her hand again, and she lets him, goddamn her. She lets him. "You and I both know why you left me to rot on that beanstalk."

She knows he chose those words carefully, knows he's trying to get a rise out of her, a reaction, anything, but she can't resist, because he's right and he knows exactly what buttons to push.

"I didn't leave you there to _rot_. You were _fine_," she retorts, turning back towards him. Her voice cracks and she hates herself for it.

He doesn't say anything to agree or disagree. She hates it when he does that, lets her mind run wild. The moment stretches out, their gazes locked, but Emma is unwilling to leave her own mind, to reach out, because the space between them is terrifying.

And then he moves.

It's not far between them; the distance is small and he covers it in the blink of an eye. He closes his eyes and it's all the warning she has before he presses his lips against hers.

She can't move, locked in place, frozen from the way his nose rubs against her, familiar with this dance. He keeps it simple, surprisingly chaste for him, a brush of closed lips, one press, and then he's gone, eyes open, but no longer searching.

"Goodnight, Emma," he says, and then closes his eyes.

This time he is asleep long before she lets her eyes slide shut with exhaustion.


	6. Chapter 6

_The brush of lips feels good on her skin, goosebumps forming across the stretch of her chest. His hair is tickling her skin and it's so easy to let out a bright laugh, to squirm and pull his head up, bringing his lips back to hers._

_She feels bright and emptied out, bliss spilling out over the edges. The room is flooded with light, everything white and bright, from the genuine smile on his face to the curtains billowing against the open windows._

_His head is on her stomach, now, splayed out across the bed. She runs her fingers through his hair and laughs when he speaks, swats away his hook when it comes up to tease at the underside of her breast._

_Everything feels so full, ready to burst._

_And then it does._

_Like black ink spilling across the room, suddenly it turns dark. The wind coming through the room has turned frigid, and there are clouds in the sky, blocking out the sun. When she moves, the sheets below her squelch and she pulls her hands up, horrified to see them covered in red, so deep and dark it may as well be black._

_She wails when she feels the scrape against her sternum, flesh tearing as the sharp edge presses against it. Above her, he whispers _hold still_ and she cries, the hook plunging into her chest. _

Why_, she whimpers as she feels the tug at her heart, very real, muscle and bone and blood spilling away, pain so intense she can't feel anything anymore. Her fingers twitch at her side, useless._

_He doesn't reply._

_When he pulls, she screams._

"Emma!?"

She's being shaken. Hard. Her eyes fly open and she sits up, only to be met with firm resistance.

_He's_ there, half on top of her, his hand tight on her shoulder as he yells her name, eyes wide.

Instinctively she rolls away from him, snaps her arms up to shove him off, her fight or flight response kicking into overdrive. Unfortunately, she had been sleeping on the edge of the bed, and now she finds it falling out from under her. She's lucky she already had her hands out, but her head still bangs against the wood painfully.

"_Shit_," she curses, but it's muffled from the way she's laying against the floor. Her pulse is still racing, but it's slowly coming down, her body recognizing the transition from the dream to the real world.

Of course it spikes again when his tousled head appears over the edge, worry plain in his features. He reaches down to touch her, offer some form of comfort, and she flinches away from it involuntarily.

It hangs in the air, the heavy silence as he looks down at her, realization dawning on him.

"Oh," he says softly, so softly, and it's like he actually _did_ try to rip her heart out. She doesn't _want_ this; him to feel like he can't look at her sideways because it will hurt her. She doesn't want his stupid heart-wrenching revelations...his _affection_. If anything, she wants him cold and unfeeling and indifferently unapologetic. It would make returning those emotions so much easier.

Sighing, she leverages herself up, getting her knees up under her before pulling up far enough to slide back into the bed.

He's frozen, watching her without trying to make it obvious he's watching her, very carefully keeping himself to his side of the bed.

"Forget about it, Hook. Go back to sleep," she mutters, sliding further into the covers. She closes her eyes and breathes, trying to focus on sleep.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally shifting next to her, laying down himself.

"Stop apologizing," she snaps as she opens her eyes to glare at him, frustrated. "It was a bad dream. Not everything is about you, okay?"

He looks suitably chastised, but at the same time, frustrated in his own right.

"Is that why you threw yourself off the bed rather than let me touch you?" The words are soft, but Emma's not stupid. She recognizes the undercurrent. He's upset, and he probably has a right to be, after everything she's done to push him away.

"That's not what happened and you know it."

"You're right, it's not. I would like to know what did happen, though." He narrows his eyes. "After all, you are sleeping in _my_ bed."

And there it is. What Emma has been both dreading and looking forward to since she'd pushed him away.

"Fine," she says, deciding to cut him off at the pass, before he can actually say the words. She tells herself that hearing them won't hurt, but she knows that, just like everything else in her life, they will. "I'll leave you to it, then." She throws the covers off, quickly turning away from him when she throws her feet off the edge.

Her eyes are watering.

Goddamn it.

"Emma-" he starts, placing a hand on her arm. She wrenches it away, and blinks quickly, trying to clear her vision.

"Look, just leave me alone. Let me go on my own. Give me some fucking dignity for once, okay?" Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him flinch. The small bitter ball inside her thinks _good_.

She blindly reaches for her boots, grimacing when she finds them and starts to yank them on. Thoughts of her cold and very empty bed slows her down, but not by much. Emma learned a long time ago how to recognize when she wasn't wanted. Still, her fingers manage to tangle in the leather. How does that even _happen_.

Her foot is sliding home in the second boot when he decides that no, apparently it _is_ too much to ask for for dignity.

"Why?"

He's sitting up, now, watching her. Like he always is. She stands, reaching for her jacket, thrown haphazardly across his chair. Instead of looking at him, she focuses on doing up the buttons, knowing that she'll just be unbuttoning it again in a few minutes when she's back in her cabin. Alone.

"I know when I'm not _wanted_, Hook," she mutters, the words coming out far gruffer than she intended.

In the blink of an eye, he's out of the bed and in front of her, fingers curling into her shoulder.

"What the _bloody hell_ makes you think you're not wanted?" His voice is hard, but Emma recognizes the incredulousness in his voice. "Do you not remember earlier this evening?"

His grip on her shoulder is starting to hurt.

"How many times do I have to make it obvious to you? _I care about you_. What is so wrong that you can't _accept_ that?"

He's frustrated and swaying against her; his eyes are deep and terrifying because _he's_ not terrifying, the only thing that scares her right now is that _he cares_ and he shouldn't.

And she just can't do it anymore, can't fight him, herself, what she wants and what she hates about herself, why she can't just _let go_. Before she knows what's happening, her knees buckle under her and she's sliding to the floor as the first choked sob comes out. After that first one, she can't hold it in, full out _crying_, weeping and it's the worst she's cried in a very, very long time. More than she's allowed herself to feel, to be _hurt_ by.

She's sure she looks like a mess; she certainly feels like one, sobbing and fucking hiccuping, not even caring that her fingers are curled into the light shirt he sleeps in, but he doesn't move away from her. His hand is rubbing circles against her back and it's _surreal_, Captain Hook trying to soothe _her_.

Even after the tears subside, she's still shaking and fucking shivering, legs curled up under her haphazardly. He just holds her tight, lets her bury her face against him without commentary. Dimly, it occurs to that this probably isn't the first time he's had to deal with a woman crying in his arms.

That thought draws her out, makes her release her death-grip on his shirt, watching distractedly the way the fabric stays crumpled. She leans away, unable to look him in the eye.

"No, don't," he says, seeming to read her mind. Of course. Open book. "Don't _do that_, Emma." His grip on her tightens, keeping her pressed against him. "I know what you're thinking, and if you think I'm going to let you crawl back inside yourself _now_, _you're wrong_."

She doesn't say anything, because her first instinct is to snap back at him, to close off and pull away. Instead, she flattens her hands in her lap, rubbing nervously against her thighs.

"Why do you even care?" she murmurs, trying, and failing, to regain some measure of control.

"I _told_ you I care about you," he says, releasing her, letting out of his embrace, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. She sits back, still not looking him in the eye.

"_Why_ do you care about me? The only people that care about me are family." She looks at her fingers and her hand goes to her neck, palming at something that isn't there. The worst are soft, and for a moment, she hopes he doesn't hear. It's weakness, and though she just fell apart here on the floor, his arms so close, she fights every second of being _weak_.

But he does hear, of course. She doesn't even need to say it, because he sees everything. A surge of bitter anger rises in her at him, boiling in her veins. Very suddenly, she feels the need to get it out. To give reason to the twisted mess of emotions curling inside her.

He opens his mouth to reply, something heartfelt, Emma's sure. Instead, she surges against him, cutting him off. Her lips crash against his violently, teeth clashing before she angles her head just right. She puts all the anger and frustration and bitterness she can muster behind it, pushing hard against him. And for a moment, he lets her, opening up, hand rising from her cheek to tangle in her hair. She bites at his lip, revels in the way he groans and stiffens under her fingers. This, this she can control. This is one song, one fiddle, she knows well.

And then he pushes her away, hook shoving hard at her shoulder, enough to send her sprawling away from him.

They're both breathing hard, and Emma wants to fucking _kill_ him.

"Please, Emma, just-"

The crack of her fist on his face is beyond satisfying. As is the one after it. And the one after that.

"What is _wrong_ with you!? Why do you even care? _How_ do you care? How can you! You're fucking Captain Hook! You're a bastard and and traitor and liar and _I hate you_. _Why can't you just hate me_?" He just _sits_ there and takes it; he _fucking takes it_ like he doesn't even care anymore. Suddenly she doesn't have the heart anymore, her fists falling away on their own.

She's crying again, and she hates it.

"You mean why can't I hate you like you hate yourself?" He says, softly, and it clashes with the blood on his lip, the redness that signals the bruising that will cover the side of his face. There's a cut on his cheek that's bleeding, and he looks wrecked.

"I don't hate myself," she whispers, and it sounds pitiful to her own ears. She can't look at him; all she sees is the broken skin over her knuckles.

"You don't love yourself, either." He sounds sad. Fuck him and his sadness.

"And whose fault is that?" she hisses, finally looking up at him, her eyes narrowed even with her wet cheeks. "Maybe if people stopped _using_ me and then leaving me I wouldn't _be_ like this!"

"I _never_, left you, darling," he returns, indignant.

"No, but you did _use_ me, didn't you, _Hook_," she sneers, fingers curling involuntarily. His eyes darken momentarily, but she's too upset, pissed off, _emotional_ to be scared.

"Enough," he growls, and his hand curls around her own fist, "Emma Swan, _stop it_. I am not asking for anything from you." He narrows his eyes and curls his fingers under hers, prying her fist open. "I am telling you, _someone cares_. Lose those god-forsaken walls and _let me_."

And then he's sitting there, legs crossed beneath him, bruises blossoming across his face, his fingers curling in her own.

"I don't _deserve_ it," she cries, and she just wants to curl up into a ball and never face the world again. When did she become this person? When did she start to lose everything she'd spent thirteen years rebuilding?

"I think that's my line," he murmurs into her hair, and it comes to her, slowly, that she's back in his arms, leaning bonelessly against him as she cries. She wants to fight, but she's been fighting so hard, so far, and this is where it's gotten her. How much worse can it be to give in? The choice is massive, hanging over her head, and she feels every pound of the weight of it.

He doesn't say anything else, just holds her. She realizes she's not crying anymore, she's just sitting there, enjoying the feeling of his arms around her.

It's in that moment that she realizes the choice is already made. Maybe she made it a long time ago, maybe she made it just now, surrounded by everything _him_. But either way, she's been patching a wall that was never going to hold, throwing water out of a dingy that's already underwater. Perhaps that's why it's felt like drowning.

And why this feels like breathing again.

Her fingers ache and when she opens her hand there are crescent-shaped marks on her palm. The other hand is still firmly trapped in his. Like a wave crashing over her, every single adrenaline-dulled pain comes crashing down. She feels the ache in her legs, the throbbing in her knuckles. Her feet are asleep where they're tucked up behind her, and she's increasingly aware of her position, sprawled half across Hook's lap.

She brushes her thumb across his hand where it's tangled with hers, and blinks, her other hand coming up to rub at her tear-stained cheeks.

"Okay," she breathes against his shoulder, closing her eyes. That was the leap, and this, this is the fall.

All is silent, the only sound the creaking of the ship around them.

"Do you mean that, or are you going to hit me again?" he asks, his voice inches from her ear. It's not intentional, but she lets out a bark of laughter.

"No, I think I'm done," she says, pulling away. He smiles. "For now," she appends, grinning cheekily at him. He looks startled for a moment, but then the smile is back, wide and bright and it looks like the cheesiest ray of sunlight. He hasn't looked at her like this in a long time. Not since that day on the beanstalk, the highest compliment he could think of spilling out of his lips. She would make a hell of a pirate indeed.

"Well then, are you finally ready to go back to sleep?" He smiles and rises, shaking out his stiff legs. "I have to say, the floor is exceedingly uncomfortable, love. I guarantee that I'm not only much softer, but infinitely more fun." The wink that follows is completely expected, and one hundred percent him, the saucy pirate. She grins and takes the hand he offers her. If she tugs on it more than strictly necessary to rise, well, that's her business.

"Careful, pirate. That's the kind of thing that'll find your ass back on the floor," she replies, and he actually chuckles.

"Darling, I would _love_ to see you try to kick me out of my own bed." He slides his arm around her back, and before she knows what's happening, his other arm goes under her legs, and he's hoisting her up. Instinctively, her arms tighten around him.

"Hook-" He shushes her, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes searching, not quite begging, but asking.

"Trust me," he says.

Emma bites her lip and hesitates for only a second before nodding her head.

He heaves out a breath, his shoulders relaxing under her forearms. Moving slowly, he heads back for his bed, and gently lays her down before going around to the foot of the bed. There he crouches and begins pulling her boots back off, letting them clunk back onto the floor. Once that is accomplished, he eases back to her side, nudging her forward with his hook. She catches his drift and sits up, relaxing her shoulders as he unbuttons her jacket, easily manipulating the chunky buttons out of their holes one-handed. He tugs at it and she slips her arms out, lets him take it and put it back in the chair.

And then she's back as she was, laying on top of the mussed bed as he strips off his shirt and crawls in next to her. It's a little silly, really, the way she feels boneless and empty, how she lets him curl his arm around her waist and breathe in the side of her neck. She's not sure if she's just overloaded and exhausted, or if she is truly _fine_. The rational thought that's returning to her oh-so-slowly is firmly in the latter camp.

"Don't overthink it. Just relax," he murmurs against her, and she squeezes her eyes shut. There's shame lurking on the edge; that she's just giving up and letting him in, that he doesn't deserve a second chance but she's giving it to him anyways. "I told you, I don't want anything from you, Emma."

"I know," she breathes, opening her eyes to blink at the ceiling. "But you don't get it. No matter what, I'm making a choice." She rolls onto her side, facing him. This isn't something she wants talk about, but she owes him this much. At the very least, for beating the shit out of him. "If I _feel_, then I feel _everything_, and it _hurts_."

He raises his hand, brushes his fingers across her cheek. It makes her hyper-aware of the sorry state she must be in; tear-tracks and puffy eyes and red cheeks. But he doesn't seem to notice, or care.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe there will never be an _us_?" He doesn't even seem to react to her words, his thumb still tracing the curve of her cheek. "Not after everything," she adds, shaking her head. It throws his hand off, and he doesn't try to return it.

"Of course. Every day, in fact." He smiles humorlessly. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever." His hand finds her and his fingers tighten around her own. "I'm going to fight for you, love. Even if you _never_ want me again." For the first time, he looks away, his eyes flickering down the space between them, to where their fingers are joined. He sighs, and his voice is quiet, full of regret. "It's the least I can do."

"You _know_ you don't owe me, right?" There's a knot that's formed at his words, sitting low in her belly. "It's the past. I don't want your _resentment_." She spits the word out like it's poison. And it is. It always is.

He smiles again and tips his head forwards to meet hers.

"I know," he says, breathing in the air between them. It feels good, and Emma lets her eyes slide shut. She trusts him. At least right now.

Even when he brushes his lips against hers, closing the sliver of distance between them, she lets him, forces herself to relax. He's pouring himself into it, trying to convey everything that he can't otherwise say. And it's not unpleasant. It doesn't bring to light any bad memories, any dangerous ground. It's soft and sweet and _caring_; he's so careful, but she can feel the firmness behind it. He's not afraid of breaking her anymore. She thinks maybe he's trying to get a response, but she can't give him that much. It's too much, for now. She doesn't know what to do, or how to go about this, so she slides her eyes open. When he pulls away, his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he opens them and tries to focus on her, still so close.

He cares about her. And she doesn't have a choice anymore, because she feels something, something coiled lazily deep inside her, something that's just waiting to be given a chance, and here she is, giving it a chance. She's letting someone in. And maybe letting something out.

He blinks lazily at her, apparently unbothered by her own internal focus. Instead, he snakes his arm under her, pulling her against him as he rolls back onto his back, ending with her curled against his side. She closes her eyes and exhales; just breathes through the moment.

She realizes abruptly that his chest is rising under her fingers with the same rhythm as hers, and it catches her off guard. How many times has she slept with him, fallen asleep exactly like this, and never noticed? It's a simple human thing, but it sends a shock of warm familiarity through her. The warmth of his skin under her fingers, against the side of her face, the simple movement of breathing lulling her, allowing her to fall back to the exhaustion from earlier. Her adrenaline spike is long worn away, and now the only thing keeping her from giving into sleep is the distant fear of another nightmare.

In the end, even that is not enough to keep sleep from claiming her, because the next thing she realizes is that there is sun shining through the portholes and he is still there, bare chest against her cheek, his fingers still loosely laid across her shoulder.

There are no nightmares, no shadows lurking at the edges of her vision.

Somewhere deep inside, hidden behind the remains of all the walls that have been crashed through in the past two years of Emma's life, something sparks to life and unfurls itself, crashing outwards and expanding through her heart, pounding against the inside of her chest.

It feels like a bright room, doused in sunlight.

* * *

First of all, thank you so much to every single person who has read, reviewed, favorited, commented, liked, sent messages or reblogged, basically, anything; without you, this story certainly wouldn't be what it is, and probably would have never gotten here. So thank you. You've made writing a joy and I wish I could thank all of you individually. There will be an epilogue, and though I can promise it will be fun and juicy, it serves mainly as an add-on to the ending here. :) 


	7. Chapter 7

I'm so, so sorry for how long this has taken to get out. Lots of things happened and then refused to happen, but at least it's like 10k? One day there might be more in this verse, but I make no promises, because, as we've all seen, I suck at actually updating.

* * *

Storybrooke feels different.

She can't tell if it's because of everything that's happened to her, or if it's the town itself...but things are _different_. Maybe it has something to do with the pirate who follows her around like an unfortunately sexy lost puppy.

Seriously, when he said he wasn't going to leave her, she hadn't really thought he meant he was _never going to leave her side_. That's an exaggeration, but not by much. Every time she turns around, it seems like he's there. At the office(he drops by to, as he claims, prove he's not causing trouble, which part of her appreciates but the majority of her loathes, because it means that she gets no work done while he pesters her with questions and flaunts his ass like it's his job), at the diner(seriously, he must be best friends with Ruby at this point, the number of times she's walked in to find him sitting at the counter, chatting with the waitress), even in her own fucking apartment. That last one is, admittedly, her own fault; she didn't exactly leave that extra key sitting on her counter just for decoration. She had hoped he would see it when he helped her move, and the next time she'd looked, it was gone.

She didn't know why she didn't just _give_ it to him; he spent his nights (and, apparently, most days) with her, and that had always been her hope. They hadn't talked about _them_, not really, since the return to Storybrooke. And so they kept to their ambiguous relationship; they slept together and he ate breakfast with her and stared at her and _waited_ for her. Sure, he was less than saintly, stolen kisses and innuendo and "forgetting" to put a shirt on and "accidentally" losing track of that wandering hand , but he was still there, wasn't he? Just like he'd promised. The bastard refused to give up, and somehow, it was _working_.

It was hard, trying to remember all the reasons they were a bad idea, why _he_ was a bad idea. And maybe that's why it feels like everything has shifted, why the air feels a little less sharp, why she finds herself smiling just a little more.

She's given up on trying to explain her actions to herself, to justify why she lets him in. Honestly, she lost that fight the night she gave into his comfortable embrace. It's a battle not worth fighting, because either way, she loses. She had never planned on letting him _get_ to her, but just as certainly, she had, and he'd firmly cozied up inside her walls like he had been meant to be there all along.

Either way, he's not here now, and she has actual work to do; she's been gone for so long, first to the Enchanted Forest and then to Neverland, that it seems like it's been ages since she last did her job. The neatly-filled forms stare back at her mockingly, daring her to process them.

Sighing, she closes her eyes. As much as she dislikes dwelling on her personal life, it's still infinitely more engaging than filing paperwork and filling out more forms. When she'd taken the job she'd known there would be paperwork, but she hadn't anticipated the sheer volume. Especially when David was off for the afternoon, Mary-Margaret insisting that she needed his help to repaint Emma's old room.

She'd tried _really hard_ not to think about what else her parents might be doing. Instead, she looks at her watch, groaning when she realizes it's nowhere near quitting time. As if trying to give her an excuse to get out of the building, her stomach growls, a friendly reminder that she'd skipped lunch in favor of a nap.

Shoving away from the desk with her toes, she grabs her jacket and stands. To the diner, then. And hopefully, her unconventional roommate would be elsewhere. Sharpening his hook or shining his buckles or something.

She winced as she stepped outside; even in her head that sounded positively dripping with something suggestive. She was starting to sound like _him_. It was a truly horrifying thought.

The bell on the door tinkled brightly as Emma pushed in on it, and her eyes instantly fell on the only person sitting at the bar; actually, the only customer in the restaurant.

Of course. Because her luck was _never_ that good.

Hook was amicably chatting with Ruby, a faint smile playing at his lips as he picked at the plate of fries in front of him. Both of them looked over at the door when she entered, and both lit up with smiles on seeing her.

It's was eerie. Not for the first time, she realizes she's dreading the day when they start plotting against her. Shaking her head, she took the seat next to Hook. Ruby raised an eyebrow at her.

"Slow day?"

Emma groaned and slid her elbows across the bar. "_Paperwork_," she huffed, and Ruby nodded understandingly.

"Noticed you weren't in for lunch; you want the usual?" Emma nodded, dropping her head into her hands.

"To go, please," she added as Ruby headed off. As if he had just been _waiting_(and in reality, he probably had) for the dark-haired woman to disappear, Hook's hand appeared on her thigh, far too high for where they were, considering _anyone_ could walk in at _any_ point.

"You know, if you'd like to make your afternoon more interesting, I'd be _more_ than happy to help, darling." She didn't have to even look up to be sure he was smirking; she could practically _hear_ it dripping off the words.

"If you don't move your hand, you'll find yourself with _two_ hooks in a minute, buddy," she said without malice. His hand lingered for a moment, gently squeezing before obligingly vanishing from her leg. A tiny part of her missed the connection, but it wasn't _right_. They were in public, for christ's sake.

And she probably shouldn't be letting him touch her like that anyway. The fact that that's a secondary concern in her own head isn't lost on her. She's slowly crumbling, and she's finding the bad memories associated with him seeming more and more surreal, the nights where he holds her like she's the most important thing in the world shining brighter than anything else.

He'd said that he'd be there, and here he is.

"Thinking about me?" His voice is startlingly close to her ear, and she jerks, her head whipping up to see him leaned towards her, his face inches from hers. She licks her lips involuntarily, and regrets it when his eyes flicker down to her lips, his whole body swaying towards her with the movement.

"Maybe," she replies, turning away from him again. It would be useless to deny; he would just pester her until she told him the truth and then he would _crow_ at her and it would be incredibly embarrassing. And she's trying to be less closed-off to him. He's making an effort, she should at least do the same. The idea seems rather foreign, but she's _trying_, okay. That should count for something.

"Good things, I hope?" He's smiling at her, now, soft edged and stupid. _Affectionate_. It curls her toes, honestly, sends a happy little thrill through her. It's childish and insignificant, but it makes her feel good. His stupid smiles and light-hearted flirting and constant presence feels _good_.

There. She admitted it. That's one step down, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.

At that very moment, Ruby arrives, handing Emma her food. Hook looks more than a little crestfallen at the interruption, but Emma reasons he'll get over it. It's not like he never sees her or anything.

"Thanks, Ruby." She grins at her friend, purposefully not looking back at Hook. "I'll see you later," she adds, still ignoring the pirate as she slides off the stool.

"What about me?" He's pouting at her. Jesus. She can't resist, really; playing with him is just too much fun.

"Yeah, you'll probably see me later at some point too," she says, furrowing her brow for a minute, as though contemplating the idea. Behind the counter, Ruby is trying (and failing) to keep her grin hidden.

Quickly, before he has a chance to react, she reaches out and ruffles his hair, sticking it up in all directions before spinning on her heel and heading for the door. His indignant cry of "Emma!" is like _music_ to her ears. It has her smiling all the way back to the office.

When she _finally_ pushes her own door open, completely exhausted but unable to stop thinking, it's to a completely unsurprising scene. The sight of Captain Hook sprawled across her couch, watching some stupid daytime talk show, should probably be more surreal, but this is the fifth time she's caught him gazing intently at the screen, soaking up the "reality" of her world.

It brings a stupid smile to her face that she tries desperately to stifle. She hangs her coat up and toes out of her shoes, kicking them off by the door before turning back to him, only to find her breath catching in her throat when she meets his gaze.

His attention is focused on her, now; the TV plays on in the background, a dull hum, but his eyes are quite firmly fixed on her. The couch faces away from the door, so he's had to tip his head over the back, craning his neck, which must be uncomfortable, but christ, is it worth it. Just from here she can see the expanse of his neck and the beginning of his chest, dark hair curling teasingly, the way it _doesn't_ disappear into his shirt, because he doesn't seem to understand that the point of a button-down is to actually _button_ the fucking buttons.

"Hey," he says softly, and it snaps her out of it. She realizes she's been staring for far too long at the curve of his skin. Already she can feel the blush creeping up her neck, and she tries desperately to stamp it out.

"Hey," she replies, though it definitely comes out as more of croak than an actual word. His lips quirk up at the edges, and she knows the heat on her cheeks must be obvious. It occurs to her that he's doing it on purpose, the asshole. She narrows her eyes at him and his grin blossoms into a full-blown smirk. Yup, on purpose.

"You _suck_," she hisses at him, stomping away from the door, towards her room.

"But you love it!" His shout is mirthful even as she slams her door, and she can _hear_ him laughing at her from the other side.

And, she realizes belatedly as she brings her fingers up, there's a smile forming on her own lips, and she can't stamp it out.

Goddamn it. Why is it so hard to remember what he's done? Who he's supposed to be? All the times just his _presence_ had made her want to cry. How _alone_ she'd felt because of him. Because right now, her mind is flooding with good memories; their second, third times, discovering new things about each other even as they struggled to keep quiet. Three evenings ago, when she'd been grumpy because Henry was growing up, angry that she'd missed the times in his life when he'd _needed_ her, the way he'd pulled her tight against her chest and told her that her kid would _always_ need her.

The worst part is that he makes her forget, about _everything_. About being hurt and broken and feeling like no person could actually care for her without being obligated to do so.

His stupid innuendos are starting to put her at ease instead of raising her hackles.

Sighing, she pushes herself away from the door, stripping her clothes off mechanically before throwing them in a pile near the door. She's going to have to face him again, and there's something swirling inside her, pressing her to make a move, to do _something_, a weight that is getting harder and harder to ignore. Her thoughts are a mess as she picks out an over-sized t-shirt and shorts from her dresser, perfectly acceptable for spending the evening at home in.

Her body is perfectly willing to let him back in; bruises and aches long-forgotten in the giddy rush of how he looks at her. And her head has fallen in line, rationally noting that the intervening months have been nothing but peaceful, that he has been _honest_ and _good_ and that the man who once never did anything for anyone else has actually been _trying_ for _her_.

The only hold-out is her heart, of course. Because that way he looks at her; it may be a rush, but there's always a crash. She's more scared of herself than she is of him; has been for a long time. He's already woken up something inside her that she'd thought long-dead; something so intense that it hurts less to give in and let it wash over her. She actually _cares_, and that means she can't just shut out the terror, the fear that if she starts something _physical_ they won't just find themselves in the same places all over again. That her heart won't end up broken again. That she won't be proven wrong in trusting him with this.

She shoves the idea out of her head the instant her eyes start to sting, desperate to keep any outward sign of her internal struggle out of her face. Instead, she steps into her shorts, yanking them up before she throws on her shirt and swings her door open, stalking back into the main room.

He's still on the couch, and she notices as she rounds the corner to sit next to him that he had in fact actually buttoned his shirt. Well, partially. Two buttons, half-way down, have been slipped into their holes, but for all the good that it does; he might as well not be wearing anything at all. And the stupid pants he's wearing, slung low on his hips, don't help matters any either. He looks like a mess, and it's still fucking sexy.

She blinks, hard, one, twice, trying to clear her head of those alltogether _dangerous_ thoughts. She turns her attention back to the TV, instead, for the first time noticing that apparently his daytime show is off the air and instead he's watching...Wheel of Fortune? Scoffing, she turns to him, their shoulders rubbing as she swings her arm over the back of the couch.

"Is this all you do when I'm not around? Watch TV?" She raises an eyebrow incredulously.

"What?" He doesn't seem to understand, his eyebrows coming together in puzzlement. "What's wrong with this box? It's extremely eye-opening about your world, Swan." The question from his gaze fades as he leans towards her, his head tilting mischievously. "And no, it's not the _only_ thing I do without you," he finishes with a wink.

Emma rolls her eyes, more than accustomed to his never-ending innuendos.

"Really? You seem to be unable to button your own buttons without me. I doubt you can do much else." She nods her head at his shirt. "Do you need help or something?"

His eyes light up at that. "Darling, you can _help_ me any time you like, if it bothers you." He's grinning again, wide and teasing. She sighs and presses her lips together, desperately trying not to let him see her own amusement.

"It doesn't _bother_ me. It's _indecent_. What if someone were to see you like that?" She raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't falter.

"Then I'd ask them if _they_ wanted to help me," he sasses back. "Besides, I think you're a liar. I think it _does_ bother you." He's inching closer to her, his arm already instinctively curling around her shoulders. Quickly, she turns her attention back to the television, where Pat Sajak is asking one of the contestants about his family. He's from New York and he has three daughters, she notices, desperate for the distraction. It doesn't seem to phase Hook one bit, his breath ghosting across her shoulder, the side of her neck, his nose brushing the curve of her neck, eyelashes fluttering against her skin. She barely represses the shiver that goes through her when he presses a soft kiss against her jaw.

"Hook..." she starts, ready to tell him to stop, to reestablish their barriers, but he stops on his own, one small press of his face against her neck before he pulls away and turns his attention back towards the television.

The answer is the Mississippi River, which she knows Hook is never gonna guess, but when she flickers her eyes over to him, he's gazing intently at the screen, as though he can puzzle out the answer with sheer willpower.

She sighs, and as though he _knows_ what is coming, his arm across the back of the couch tightens.

"We need to talk." His face doesn't change, but she can feel his body stiffen where they're pressed together, thighs brushing. He brings his arm down from behind her, and clicks off the TV with the remote. For a moment there's nothing but silence, the voice of one of the contestants echoing in Emma's head.

"Are you going to tell me to go?" He speaks first, his gaze still locked on the TV. She doesn't miss the way his jaw clenches. "Because I will if you want me to." He looks at her, then, the full force of his gaze turned to hers. "But you should know I meant what I said. I'm not going to _leave_ you."

She's not sure what exactly she had meant to say, because it's all thrown into the air with the way he's looking at her. Intellectually, she's always known that the kind of man who loves fiercely enough to seek revenge for _three hundred years_ must be intense to face, but here she is confronted by just a tiny speck of that and it still feels like drowning in a tsunami.

Instead, she reaches for his fist, balled in his lap next to the forgotten remote. Carefully, she peels his fingers back and slides her own palm flat against his, just as he'd done with her so many nights ago.

"I don't want you to leave, okay?"

Like his strings have been cut, he heaves in a huge breath, all the tension rolling out of him. He squeezes her hand gently, his gaze softening, searching, now.

"Then what?" He's quiet, his eyes flickering across her face as he asks the question.

Honestly, she doesn't know. They do need to talk, to figure _this_ out. To figure them out. A label, because they're not sleeping together(except for how they are), and they're not _together_(except for how they are). How is she supposed to explain it to the ones who've started noticing (her parents, her son, _Ruby_) that they're _different_? How can they explain what they are without more questions, questions that have answers she's never planning on telling?

How does she explain that against everything, she _cares_ more than she should and it's terrifying because what if he breaks this again?

She realizes that he's still waiting for an answer, still _waiting_ for her, thumb absently brushing against her hand. Her mind flashes back to another time, hazy, now, after all that's passed since then, sitting together on a beach, trying to figure out how to move forward. He was waiting for her then, even before she completely realized it.

Before she even registers what she's doing, she's moving forward, pressing her lips against his. He's surprised at first, she can tell from the way he freezes under her, but he loosens readily enough, his hand untangling from hers to come up and cup at her cheek. They've kissed before, short presses that have only gotten out of hand a couple times, leaving her flushed and him apologetic. But this is the first time she's instigated it, and she knows it surprises him, though he doesn't let it show. He seems willing to continue letting her lead, his lips opening against her softly enough to let her decide if she wants to go there. And she does. Oh, she does. It's an awkward position, but she brings her hands up to the sides of his face, kissing him with all she can, licking into his mouth, savoring the taste of _him_.

His hand moves to the back of her skull, cradling her head gently as he deepens the kiss in return, letting her set the pace but still kissing her back as passionately as he can from the angle. He moans against her mouth, desperate and _aching_, and it sends a shiver through her, sparks under her skin. She slides her legs under her, pushing forward against him without breaking the kiss, and he obliges, one foot sliding up onto the couch so she can settle between his legs as he lays back across the arm of the couch.

Dimly, she registers that his other arm has snaked around her waist, holding her against him even as she grips his shirt, pressing against his mouth, unwilling to break apart. She releases his shirt, her hand easily sliding inside, against his chest. The buttons offer little resistance, popping both at the same time as she slides her hand lower, skimming across the flat plane of his stomach and then back up his side. He nips at her lip and then sucks it into his mouth, fingers tangling in her hair. She groans and feels it reverberate in his chest as he echoes her. His hook rubs against her side idly as she presses further against him, slotting her hips against his. She's _burning_ and still she wants _more_; she settles for tightening her grip on his ribcage, pressing further into his mouth. His hand brushes the top of her hip, slides under her own t-shirt. And suddenly, everything is _wrong_. As though by magic, his touch makes it feel like the skin there is burning and _freezing_, like rubbing ice on burn, and instinctively, she hisses, pulling away. He freezes, instantly withdrawing his hand like she's on fire and he's scared he'll be burned. Which she does kind of feel like, right now, and she hates herself for it. Her skin is on fire and it feels like she just jumped into frigid water. Every point where they're touching, where she can feel the heat of his skin, is like a pinprick of light, and it makes her uncomfortably aware of their positions.

When she finally slides her eyes up to meet his, they are wide, fixed on her, _waiting_ for her reaction. "_Fuck_," she swears under her breath as she tips her head down, hair brushing across his bare skin. She's intimately aware of that, too, that he is laid out under her like some kind of sacrifice, offered up for her. His arms have fallen to the sides, carefully away from her bare skin, and while he looks wrecked _physically_, shirt torn open, lips bright and kiss-bitten, hair sticking up in every direction, his eyes look absolutely _destroyed_ when she meets his gaze. And not in a good way.

"_Shit_, I'm sorry, fuck, I didn't-" he stops himself, fingers twitching at his side. He wants to touch her, she knows, recognizes that tic of his. He wants to _do_ something, but he doesn't want to make things worse. He doesn't know how to be there for her without actually _being_ there.

"No, stop. Stop apologizing. Just-" she pauses to heave out a sigh. "Just stop." Slowly, she lifts herself up and away from him. Leaving him hurts almost as much as staying, and how fucked up is that? Her skin is coming alive, again, conflicting signals screaming at her to _touch_ and _feel_ and just let go while others urge her to curl into a ball and never leave her corner of this couch.

She hasn't really _thought_ about that day since they got back home, even before then, but she can feel it, dangerously close. What she'd felt after, the anger and the pain and the desperation, all bubbling right under the surface. All she has to do is let them in, and they'll be right there, ready to consume her again.

"Hey."

His voice draws her attention out, up, to him. Apparently he'd followed her up, which she appreciates, because she's not sure she could handle him looking like _that_, looking at _her_ like that; too many conflicting things running through her mind for it to be even remotely safe.

"Don't leave me." His hand is very carefully sitting in the middle of the couch; close enough to touch, but far enough for her to ignore if she wants. He's trying to watch her without making it obvious that's what he's doing, but he _sucks_ at it. Just like he's _always_ sucked at pretending he isn't always focused on her.

She takes a deep breath, shoving away what is lurking just beneath the surface, and reaches out. His fingers close around hers and she nearly cries with relief, nothing but the feel of his calloused fingertips against her skin, his palm meeting hers. Tears threaten the edge of her vision, top and bottom turning watery.

Taking her lack of violent reaction as a sign, apparently, he leans over, his arm curling around her shoulder to press her against his side. All she feels now is warmth, comforting and soothing, and it makes her feel like a child for her previous reaction. Still, she presses her face against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, spicy and just _there_, breathing through the fading tears in her eyes. The cuff of his brace rubs against her arm gently as he tips his head down to press a kiss into her hair, surely not missing the way she clings to him like he's the only safe haven.

It's fucking ironic, is what it is.

"I love you," he murmurs quietly against her head, the words muffled by her hair. But she hears them clear enough. She's not sure how to react. He's never said those exact words, but he's made it obvious how he feels. It's not news. Except for how her heart clenches up and beats a little faster. But she's so _tired_, emotionally and physically, that she just doesn't want to address it. Opening that can of worms right now would be a recipe for...well, nothing calm.

And maybe she doesn't want to deal with her own feelings, her own insecurities and issues. Or the fact that her instinctive response is to simply reply in kind, and that has _never_ been her. Not in the past decade, at least.

Thankfully, it seems he wasn't expecting a response, because several long minutes pass where nothing happens; he continues stroking her arm as her breathing evens out.

"I don't want anything from you. I don't _expect_ anything from you, okay?" He pulls away from her enough to catch her eyes, make sure she's looking at him. His voice drops as he continues. "I don't want you to do something you aren't one hundred percent sure about. And," his lips quirk, "I think you're still only about ninety percent sure about me."

She snorts, grateful at the escape tacked onto the end there. She's not ready to talk about this; she probably never _will_ be. Talking isn't her strong suit. "Ninety percent? Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

His trademark smirk is firmly in place now. "I do believe _you_ kissed _me_ just now."

"Don't remind me," she teases back, pulling away from him enough to stretch her arms out over her head, hoping he'd caught the teasing lilt to her tone. She appreciates this, that he doesn't press her, not on this. That every time he does something so stupidly _sweet_ and _understanding_ he always manages to throw something onto the end there for her to latch onto, restore their lighter dynamic.

"Just keep telling yourself that, darling." She didn't have to look over to know he was grinning. The couch shifted and she glanced over; he had eased himself up off of it and was now standing over her. Despite the voice inside her nagging that it was probably a bad idea, she let her eyes roam over his exposed chest, the sharp lines of his hips disappearing into his pants.

It feels like she's on a fucking roller coaster; one minute she's panicking because he touched her, and the next her skin is heating up because she wants to touch him again. She wants to drag her lips across his skin, feel him tremble under her fingers.

He shifts, crouching a little in front of her, interrupting her thoughts and forcing her eyes back up to his face, where that smug look is quite firmly taunting her.

"Now" he says pointedly, breaking the silence, "I'm going to go take a very cold shower."

"Sorry," she replies, even though, selfishly, she's not actually that apologetic. It's nice to know that she affects him, even if she still feels miserable for her reaction. He hums, grin never breaking.

"I'm sure you are." He chuckles before pressing a quick kiss to her lips, and then he stands. It serves to bump her heart rate, and she's pretty damn sure it's not the same panic as before. He's half-way across the room when she finally looks up, a small smile tugging at her lips when she notices that the buttons from his shirt are falling down the crack of the couch. It's not like he was using them anyways, really, and it makes her feel warm inside.

"Hey," she says, and he pauses, turns back. "Don't wait for me, okay?" He nods curtly, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he disappears into her room. In a minute, she hears the door to the bathroom shut, and, eventually, the pipes coming to life as he turns the water on.

She's still staring into the space where he had been standing, though, her mind racing as she taps her fingers idly against her lips. She stays like that for a long time, just thinking, letting her mind skip from thought to thought, moving when any one becomes too much to consider.

All she knows is that their little encounter had made some things painfully clear; she _wants_ him, despite thinking that she never would again, and she didn't know how to _have_ him, not without a repeat performance of their painfully awkward moment earlier.

She's so lost in thought that she doesn't notice when the water shuts off and light goes out in the bedroom. It only occurs to her how late it must be when she looks outside and has a moment of confusion at the darkness. Suddenly she feels guilty, upset that she's been sitting here thinking for so long, her mind going in ever-shrinking circles. Sighing, she picks herself up and makes her way to the bedroom.

She pauses at the doorframe, taking in the way he looks, so peaceful in sleep. It's warm in the room, residual heat from the bathroom making it a little hotter than usual. He's wearing his usual fare; shirtless, thin pajama pants that look suspiciously like something her father would wear barely sitting on his hips. He's lying flat on his back, arm stretched out across her side of the bed, as though he's just waiting to pull her against him.

It sends another of those strange, meddlesome pangs through her chest, so she shakes her head and heads over to the bed, crawling in next to him. She throws her arm over his waist, nestling her head against his shoulder. He shifts a little, his arm curling around her.

She feels her eyes drooping, exhaustion taking over. And she lets it, gives in, because she's warm and comfortable, _safe_ here.

When she manages to pry her eyes open, she's still in the same position, and the sky outside her window has just started to lighten.

For a long moment she just watches him sleep from her vantage point against his shoulder. The rise and fall when he breathes, the relaxed lines of his face. The way his fingers sometimes twitch against her side, like he's dreaming of something.

She closes her eyes and presses her face against his skin, enjoying the comfort of the moment, trying to not think of the previous night.

Of course, trying to not think about it is the same as sending a bright flashing sign to her brain that says 'THINK ABOUT IT'. And it's hard, in her still-drowsy mind, to remember why it's a bad idea to think about it.

She wants to think about it, to think about _him_. After all, she just spent the night in his arms and she was _fine_. What else can she look for, what else can she expect?

She knows she trusts him, knows with every fiber of her being that he would (literally) fall on his own sword before he did anything to her. The months since that day have more than proved that he was deadly serious when he'd sworn he would not touch her.

But now she was ready; she _wanted_ to touch him. She wanted him to be able to touch _her_. In her head, she replayed every second of last night, every movement, trying to figure out where it had gone wrong.

Abruptly, she found the moment. His hand had slipped under her shirt, fingers grazing the top of her hip. The realization pushed the last dregs of sleep out of her consciousness, and she eased herself up, frustrated. She wanted to choke on how simple it was. He'd just _touched_ her, quite literally just a brush of fingers, and she'd fallen apart.

And it didn't make any _sense_; he touched her all the time, little brushes to let her know he was there, easy and gentle and affectionate. _Of course_, the back of her mind nagged at her, _you weren't trying to get into his pants those times_.

Sighing, she pulled her feet under her and scrubbed her hands over her face. She wasn't good with words. She didn't know how to explain to him how she felt, how things were _different_; all she knew to do was to _show_ him, and even that seemed to be impossible.

Slowly she slid out of bed, careful to avoid waking him up. It was early, she noted, glancing over at her alarm clock. Far too early for her to be awake, really, especially on a Saturday morning, but she couldn't curl up next to him and go back to sleep when she was still trying to figure this out. She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror, hair messy and tousled, shirt crooked over her chest. Behind her in the reflection, Hook slept on, blissfully unaware of her troubles.

She resisted the urge to stomp her feet and yell and demand that all of her body fall in line with her desires. It was stupid and childish but she _felt_ stupid and childish. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she yanked the shirt up over her head and shoved her shorts down. Maybe she just needed a nice, long, relaxing shower. She snagged a towel and headed to the bathroom, hoping he would still be asleep when she got out.

He wasn't, of course.

She came out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, the towel wrapped loosely around her, and headed straight for her dresser. It wasn't until she caught his eyes watching her in the mirror that she realized he was not only awake, but still in her room, sitting on her bed, watching her with amusement and that ever-lurking spark of something more. She nearly jumped out of her skin, her hand instinctively going to pull the bottom of the towel down over the backs of her thighs. She was suddenly _very_ aware of how small it was.

"Jesus christ, Hook, you scared me," she gasped, trying to ignore the way her skin was flushing under his gaze.

"Oh, don't mind me. Just pretend I'm not here at all." A smug grin was plastered across his face as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms going behind his head. She glared at his reflection, but it did nothing to dissuade his expression. If anything, it made his grin wider.

Well, fine. If that's how he wanted to play it.

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, she let the towel drop, kicking it aside when it pooled next to her feet.

For just a split second, his eyes widened, sweeping slowly over her bared skin before snapping back up to hers. And then he slammed his eyes shut, but not before a pained whimper escaped his lips. For a second she marvelled at that. He wanted her; it was obvious, had _always_ been obvious. But he wasn't even looking at her, purposefully _not_ looking, like she hadn't been the one to choose to get naked in front of him.

It warmed her heart even as it sparked a tiny amount of annoyance inside her. She _wanted_ that heated gaze on her skin, she wanted to see those parted lips and desire-filled eyes. Was it so bad if she wanted a little bit of disrespect there?

"One day you're going to be the death of me," he muttered, voice suddenly quite low, though she wasn't sure if it was because she was naked or he was frustrated. Or both. She glanced back to his face. He had clapped his hand over his eyes, pressing firmly against the bridge of his nose; apparently his strength of will wasn't quite _that_ good.

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't. Instead, she reached down, pulling open her dresser to gather together her clothes. But when she reached inside to pull out her underwear, her eyes fell to something else entirely. Tucked away carefully in the corner was something she'd completely forgotten was there. It was the scarf from so long ago, the one from their very first adventure, when he'd bandaged her hand. She'd kept it at the office for a while, but after he'd stolen his hook back and left it behind, she'd relocated it to her house, assuming he didn't want it anymore, entirely unsure why she hadn't just thrown it away, why she'd tossed it in with her mismatched socks.

And remembering the brush of it against her skin, the way he'd _looked_ at her like he would have been more than happy to use that mouth wherever she may have wanted, an idea sparks in her mind. A terrible, very _bad_ idea that sends heat curling under her skin.

She contemplates it for just a moment, wondering if he'd even be up for it. It seemed like an eternity ago when he'd been handcuffed to a bed and full of suggestions; a lot had changed since then.

Abruptly making up her mind, she shifts gears, dropping the underwear and reaching instead for the strip of fabric. It's light; if he _wanted_ to he could probably tear it, but she doesn't think he will. Well, not if he lets her do what she's thinking of.

Quickly, she shuts the dresser and turns around. He's still lying there, hand firmly placed over his eyes, his left arm resting loosely on his stomach. She frowns, her gaze drawn to the brace that holds his hook in place. He doesn't really ever take it off; she has never pried, and it's just become another part of him. But now she eyes it carefully, noticing the lip where it meets his forearm. Yes, this could work.

The thought of him in her bed, naked and panting and _begging_ for her shoots through her mind and she _really_ does not need to be distracted, but she gives herself a moment to appreciate the mental image.

If she wasn't sure before, she's sold on the idea now. It solves the problem of him touching her, and, to be honest, she kind of likes the symmetry of the idea, of _him_ being at _her_ mercy.

Now she just has to see if his interest extends this far. She paces over to his side of the bed, shaking the scarf out so she can gauge its size. It should be more than long enough for what she wants.

"Hey," she says, reaching forward to peel his hand away from his face. Unsurprisingly, his eyes are wide open behind his hand, but they don't drop to her body this time. This time they're firmly fixed on her eyes.

"What are you doing, love?" he asks softly, his fingers refusing to let go of her hand. His gaze shifts to the scarf in her hand quickly, and then returns to her face, curious, questioning.

Suddenly she's nervous, and very aware of his eyes boring into her, her hand pressed tight in his fingers, of how close she is to him, her very naked body leaning towards his. She doesn't know how to explain to him all her jumbled thoughts, the tangled path that lead her here. Instead, she brings the scarf to his hand and starts wrapping it around his wrist, careful to avoid trapping her own with his.

The space between his eyebrows comes together, his eyes still questioning on her, but she ignores them, the air still just edging the line across from uncomfortable. She finishes wrapping it around and slips her hand out of his, preparing to tie the knot. Pausing for just a moment, she looks up, meeting his gaze, asking for his permission.

For must a second he seems confused, and then realization dawns on him, she can see the way it takes over his face, the confusion dropping away. Something indiscernible flickers across his eyes and then it's gone, replaced by the slow crawl of a smirk across his features.

"I _knew_ you were really into tying me up," he breathes, and his sex voice is firmly in place here, even when it dips with amusement. It's everything she wanted, everything she'd hoped for from him, and she rolls her eyes, letting only the barest hint of a smile curl her lips as she ties the knot, perhaps a bit tighter than is absolutely necessary.

"Up," she says, ignoring the innuendo. She pulls his hand over his head by the scarf, looping it around her headboard. The movement stretches her across him, bringing the side of her body close to his head, and he takes full advantage of the moment to turn his head and blow a hot breath across her chest. She nearly loses her grip on the fabric from the sudden rush of heat across her skin, and she mutters a curse under her breath. He just chuckles contentedly and lifts his left arm up so she can tie it as well.

Satisfied, she pulls back far enough to admire her handiwork. His hand is tied against the metal directly, the rest of the scarf looping around the cuff of his brace before coming back around to the front, the whole thing knotted firmly together. There will be no quick way to get him out of this. He tilts his head up to look at the set-up, flexing his fingers experimentally, humming appreciatively when he pulls and can't move.

She _really_ wants to lick a long line down the side of his exposed neck, and abruptly she realizes that she _can_. And there's nothing he can do about it.

His gaze shifts back to her, and for the first time he lets himself drink her in. She watches him, the way his eyes curl around her breasts and slide down her thighs. Just the way he's looking at her is enough to send a spiral of arousal through her belly and she decides right then and there that she is going to _enjoy_ this.

"_Emma_," he whispers, and he sounds gloriously wrecked, his voice cracking on her name. She smiles and slides onto the bed, throwing one leg over him so she can straddle his thighs. His pants are already tented with his arousal, and the thrill that she did that, that he is already hard, just from her tying him up and letting him _look_ at her, it sets her insides on fire.

Carefully keeping her hips away from his, not ready to give him the satisfaction of contact just yet, she leans forward, bracing herself over him as she bends down to press a kiss to his chest. His breathing stutters and and he gasps, shifting restlessly under her. So she does it again, moving up across his collarbone. He hisses and tilts his head back, giving her access to the line of neck, and she takes it, nipping and sucking at the skin there. Under her, he moans, a desperate little sound that she's never heard before, even with all the times they'd been together in Neverland.

She pulls away and brings her hand up to the side of his face, tilting his head towards her. His eyes are wide and dark with desire, his tongue slipping between his lips as he pants up at her.

"Gods, I love you Emma," he murmurs. The words are low and reverent and he may have sex on the brain but she's never seen him more honest. It makes her chest feel like it's going to just explode and she can't contain it anymore, she leans forward and kisses him with everything she can, pouring into it the words she can't say.

He surges against her, opening up instantly. She clutches at the sides of his face, licking into his mouth, tasting him, so familiar and bright. It's been a long time since she felt this free, and she is taking advantage of every second, every soft noise he makes against her. She tangles her hands in his hair and shifts forward, pressing their bare chests together; he hisses into her mouth at the contact, and she nips at his lip, enjoying the way his hips skitter between her legs.

Slowly, she pulls away from him, hands sliding down to his shoulders. He's breathing heavy, chest heaving, body twitching under her. It's a heady thrill, a spike of pure power coursing through her. For the first time in a long time, she feels in complete control. But she wants _more_. So she finally lowers her hips against his, grinding against him harshly. The weight of her body is the only thing that keeps him on the bed, her hands pressing hard against his chest as he pushes up against her, a desperate cry escaping his lips. His hand twists desperately against the material of the scarf, fingers opening and closing uselessly.

She circles her hips again, reveling in the feel of him, the thin cotton of his pants doing absolutely nothing to hide the sharpness of his arousal, the heat of him. Shifting a little, she drags her fingers down across his chest, nails pulling lightly at the dark hair on his chest. His eyes slide shut, back shifting off the bed a little, following the press of her fingers. The muscles of his stomach twitch and flutter when she reaches them, and she enjoys scraping lightly at the trail of hair that disappears into his pants. He bucks his hips up against her, her name spilling out in breathy little moans that only stoke the heat burning between her legs.

Twisting her fingers in the waistband of his pants, she quickly squirms down his body, pulling them with her. He lets out a disappointed noise when when she moves away from him, but lifts his hips obligingly so that she can strip away the one bit of fabric between them. Yanking them off his feet, she tosses them off the side of the bed before crawling back up him to press a soft kiss against his lips. His eyes flutter when she pulls away, his head following her even though the rest of him can't make good on that motion.

All previous plans she'd thought she had made are gone, completely forgotten because he feels amazing under her and it's become a serious distraction. For a moment she considers untying him, just to see what he would do, but she dismisses the idea quickly. She's come too far to risk anything. She wants him, and she can have him, nothing standing between them.

"Emma, if you don't want..." he trails off, misreading her ponderings as hesitation. His face is tilted forward towards her, eyes dark but edged with caution.

For a moment she just looks at him, blinking, digesting what he'd just said. And then she tips her head back and laughs. Shifting her hips lower, she teases her core against his cock, rubbing her wetness against him. His hips buck against her and the muscles in his arms tighten, trying desperately to not pull too hard at bonds holding him back.

"Do you _really_ think I'm backing down now?" She leans forward, bringing her lips to his ear, enjoying the scrape of his scruff against the side of her neck. "When I have you right where I want you?" His breath shudders past her ear and he tilts his head just enough to press hot, open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, across her neck and jaw, desperate and sloppy.

"I _need_ you, darling," he growls when his mouth reaches her ear, and he tilts his head again, lips coming down on the underside of her jaw, sucking and nipping at the skin there.

Emma chuckles and pulls away, one hand firmly planted against the center of his chest.

"And here I thought _I_ was the one in charge?" She shifts her hips against his, rocking against him. "Don't worry pirate, you'll get yours." At that, she smirked, giddy with the thrill of _him_, what he was letting her do. "Eventually."

His eyes narrowed at her, but his attempts at looking intimidating were undermined quite forcefully when she brought her hand between them and slid her fingers around him, thumb rolling over the tip of his cock as she slowly started moving. If she had been any less prepared he might have actually bucked her off, the unexpected movement drawing a long cry out of him.

It was like fucking _music_ to her ears. Sliding down his hips again, she caught his gaze, watched the way his eyes widened when she pressed a light kiss to his navel. Slowly, she pulled away from his skin, never breaking eye contact.

"_Fuck_, Emma," he groaned when she released him, bracing both her hands against his hips. She just smirked at him, enjoying the way his eyes were fixed on her, the way his breathing stuttered when she blew air across his heated skin.

Leaning forward slightly, still refusing to break eye contact, she licked one long stripe up the underside of his cock. He tasted like salt and heat and _him_ and it was intoxicating. She wanted more; she wanted _everything_.

She moved forward, letting her jaw drop open, eyes locked with his, letting him see exactly what she was doing, exactly where she was taking this. Slowly, she lowered her head, her hair drifting across his skin, and his hips stuttered, an aborted thrust that he fought hard to reign in. Deciding that she'd played him enough, she dropped her mouth on him abruptly, pushing down as far as she could go. His hips bucked against her hands, a long whine spilling from his lips as she bobbed and sucked, her tongue rolling along the bottom of him.

There was no denying it; the way he unspooled under her, a mess of twitches and nonsense words tripping out of him, all of it, it was _amazing_.

She never wanted to stop.

"Emma, Emma, Emma, oh, _Emma_," his voice stuttered, hoarse and rough. Under her fingers his skin was hot, his face and chest flushed even as he thrashed his head to the side. The muscles in his arms twitched and when she followed her gaze up she noticed he'd managed to rotate his hand enough to get a grip on the bar he'd been tied to.

She hummed and pressed down further, until his cock was pushing against the back of her throat and she could feel her herself starting to choke, the air in her lungs giving out. It was worth it, though, she thought when she pulled up off of him, to see the way his eyes rolled and fluttered. He whined when he finally noticed the loss of her mouth, but she leaned down and pressed her lips against his hip, his abdomen, his thigh, wherever she could.

Slowly, she moved forward, pressing herself against him as she went, revelling in the drag of her skin against his. Apparently he enjoyed it too, because his tongue darted out, rolling over his lips for a split second before his mouth fell open. He was panting and half-formed curses were coming from his lips, time slowing down when Emma paused and sucked a mark at the bottom of his neck. She kissed her way up his neck and across his cheek, finally meeting his lips again.

He kissed her like he was drowning and she was all he had left. And she returned the sentiment, surging against him, pressing close enough to crawl into his skin. He nipped at her lip, pressed into her mouth, careless of the way their teeth met in his hurry.

Emma circled her hips against him, desperate for some friction of her own as she rocked against his cock, teasingly close. He moaned into her mouth, low and throaty, rumbling through his chest and setting her on fire all over again.

All of a sudden, it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel him pressing into her, she wanted to throw herself across him and just revel in the way their bodies moved together. Kissing him fiercely one last time, she pulled up and away, flipping her hair over her back, knowing full well what she must look like to him. His eyes were half-lidded, his mouth hanging open slightly as he heaved in breath after breath. _I did that,_ she thought with no small sense of accomplishment.

His voice dropped into a long growling sound when she reached between them and grabbed his cock again, carefully lining himself up with her entrance. She pressed down, enough to take just the head of him inside her, and his eyes flew open wide as he sucked in a deep breath.

"Emma, oh, _fuck_, _Emma_," he said, his voice rising as she lowered herself down on him slowly. And he was hardly the only one affected. She kept her pace slow even though it was killing her, revelling in every inch of him pressing into her, the stretch and slide and pure heat of him inside of her. He was trying to not thrust up into her and finish the job himself, she could tell from the way his hips stuttered nervously under her palms.

Finally, she was flush against him, so _close_ and she rocked her hips, loving the sounds that spilled out of him in time with her own moans and heavy breaths. It felt like she was speared open, he was so deep inside her, too much and nowhere near enough at the same time. Her legs trembled where she was braced on either side of him.

Slowly, she rose up off of him, using her hands to help lift herself up. And then she dropped back down on him, driving him even deeper with the sudden movement. His head went back, pressing hard into the pillows as he let out a curse. Under her fingers, his body shook with how hard he was trying to not respond to her movements.

"Hey," Emma said, leaning forward over him to press a light kiss against his lips. "You can move, you know." She rotated her hips, rocking against him in short, lazy motions that only emphasized the feel of him pressing into her, hoping to urge him on.

But he didn't take it, instead following her lips, tilting his head against hers, desperately licking into her mouth like he thought she would deny him. She wouldn't, couldn't, not right now, not when she was tangling her fingers in his hair and pressing their bodies so close together. He had found his way inside her, and not just in the physical sense; she was wrapped up so entirely in him, the smell and the feel of him, her mind constantly returning to him, her heart beating out his name even when she didn't want it to.

Finally, he broke away, no longer kissing her but still nuzzling at her cheek, something so gentle and sweet and uncharacteristically him. Combined with her own overly-affectionate thoughts that had spiraled out of control, it made her pull away.

"What's wrong?" His voice was still a little spaced out, light and unanchored, even as his eyes found her face and focused.

"I should be asking you that," she replied, rocking her hips against his to illustrate her point. He hissed and his knuckles went white against her bedframe, but other than that, he was still, unwilling to meet her movements with his own body. "What's wrong with _you_?"

"Emma…" he trailed off, his head turning to the side, away from her.

"No, don't do that." She leaned forward again, bracing herself over him with one hand while she grabbed his jaw with the other, turning him back to her. "We were fucking every day for _weeks_, buddy. I know how you have sex. And _this_? This is not _you_." Abruptly, like a sliver of ice down her spine, she realized something. "You do _want_ this, right? Oh, god…"

At that, he moved, surging forward as far as he could to catch her lips with his own, swallowing the rest of what she might have said. Slowly, he drew back, their lips barely brushing together.

"I want you, never doubt _that_, my dear. I want to sleep with you and I want to hold you and I want to fuck you and I want to be the only one touching you." His gaze slipped down her face, from her eyes to her lips before flicking off to the side. "But I don't want to hurt you. Again." He took a deep breath and continued, still not meeting her eyes. "I want everything, and you _know_ I take what I want, I do what I want...and if you continue this, I won't ever be able to let you go. I won't be able to just _sleep_ next to you in this bed without thinking of _this_."

It wasn't exactly surprising to Emma. She'd known what she was getting into when she crawled onto him.

This time, she knew what exactly she was doing.

"Hey," she said, trying to pull his attention back to her. Finally, his eyes returned to hers, and the mix of emotions there was exactly what she'd expected. He was scared and resigned, still desperately turned on but there was an edge of something else, like he knew she was going to just _leave_ him.

Fuck that.

"Do you think I'm incapable?" she asked, again reaching for his face, forcing him to look at her.

"What?" His eyebrows went up, confusion evident. "No, of course not."

"Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?"

The confusion melted away, understanding dawning on him. "No…"

Emma leaned forward, then, pressing a crushing kiss to his lips, brutally taking what she wanted, nipping at his lips and then pulling away before he had a chance to respond. "Then stop acting like I can't make my own choices and _fuck me_." She shifted her hips again, rolling and undulating against him, a sharp reminder of where they were still joined together.

Anything he might have been about to say in response transformed into a long groan, and he shifted under her, his knees coming up behind her, forcing her forward and even further down on him. It was Emma's turn to gasp and moan, the angle shifting. Not one to be outdone, she rolled her hips and tilted herself back, enough that she could properly ride him. She didn't bother being slow anymore, and apparently he had gotten the message, because when she lifted herself up, he thrust up, meeting her half-way.

Quickly, they set a rhythm, fast and probably too rough for as long as it had been since they'd been together, but Emma couldn't care, not when he was sparking her with every thrust and her legs felt so close to giving out. Reaching one hand behind her, she grabbed his knee, needing the stability. The other went to her breast, since he wasn't exactly available for the task. She rolled her nipple and kneaded at the skin, revelling in the way it all felt, a heady mix of sex and desire and something she wasn't quite as willing to name. Beneath her, Hook gasped and stuttered out her name, the word rolling off his tongue like he'd been born to say it.

"Fuck, _Hook_," she groaned when he shifted his hips and took over, setting his own pace that brooked no room for argument. It was all she could do to hang onto him and let herself get lost in the sensation, her eyes sliding shut as she felt the tightening low in her belly that signaled her impending orgasm. She could feel herself fluttering around him, and the way his breathing stuttered, he'd felt it too.

"Gods, Emma, I want to touch you. I want to kiss you and I want to feel you coming on my fingers and tongue and I want to see you fall apart. I want to _feel_ you, love," the words flew out of his mouth, exactly what she needed right then, and she gripped his leg harder. She managed to pry her eyes open to meet his gaze, and his eyes met hers for just a moment before flickering down between them to where their bodies met. "Touch youself, darling." A grin spread across his face. "I'd do it, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Ah, there he was. The return of her cocky pirate shouldn't have been as hot as it was, but _god_ it was, and she was utterly helpless to do anything other than what he'd said. Her hand abandoned her breast and slid down between her legs, fingers fluttering against her clit as she bounced on him.

Combined with that spot he was hitting inside her with every thrust, it was enough to see the wave of pleasure crashing over her. She lost herself; dimly she was aware of cursing and screaming, a voice that sounded like her own, the feel of him inside of her, but it all paled in comparison to how she felt, and it went on and on, blurring and sticking together as she finally started to come down.

At first, she realized that there was something warm under her, and then she realized that he was still moving, even with her draped across him like so much dead weight. Soft curses were coming from next to her ear, and without thinking, she opened her mouth and started kissing and nipping at the skin under her lips, tilting her head to follow the line of his neck. Apparently that was all he needed, because his hips slammed into her once, twice more, and then he was coming, her name a hoarse whisper on his lips.

For a long moment she just laid there, breathing him in, enjoying the way their bodies were still tangled together.

"Emma…" he trailed off, his voice hoarse and it should not be twisting up her insides like that, but god, it did. But she slowly levered herself up and off of him, resisting the urge to whimper at the loss of contact. Her whole body tingled pleasantly, the muscles in her legs already protesting. But it was worth it, so worth it.

She tried to untie him as quickly as she could, but her fingers were numb and it took longer than she'd wanted. He sat there patiently, though, his eyes never leaving her. Finally, when she managed to get his hand free, she started rubbing at it, knowing he probably couldn't feel anything, not with how hard he'd been pressing against the knots.

Leaving the scarf where it was, she brought his arms down and pressed them against his chest. He didn't try to move, he just _looked_ at her, that gaze that she was starting to recognize as undisguised affection.

It always made her uncomfortable, but right now, she just couldn't care. Instead, she lowered herself back down on the mattress next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, her head leaning against his shoulder.

He didn't hesitate to throw his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. It felt nice, and that wasn't just the post-orgasm endorphins pumping through her body; it always felt nice. The silence wasn't awkward, even when it stretched on long enough for Emma to feel her eyes start to droop. Things weren't perfect, weren't ever going to _be_ perfect...but for now, Emma felt open and bare, and it wasn't scary. She felt safe, and before she knew it, she was drifting. The last thing she remembered was the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

She dreamed of him, of coming together over and over again, of holding each other and stupid sweet words that she hadn't heard from anyone in a very long time.

She woke up to bright light and light kisses on her shoulder, fingers brushing through her hair, a smile pressing against her skin.


End file.
